Strappado
by niah1988
Summary: Living hell is the best revenge. Let the game begin...and end.
1. The Skull Splitter

**TITLE:** Strappado

**GENRE:** Suspense (hopefully) and Romance (eventually...you just have to hang on long enough)

**CHARACTERS:** All the regular ones. Strappado takes place at least half a year from where they are now on the show.

**DISCLAIMER:** Of course I don't own Bones and its characters. I am only the creator of this storyline.

**STORY TITLE:** Strappado is the medieval inquisition name of a torture method we now know as 'reverse hanging' or 'Palestinian hanging'. It is a form of torture where a victim's hands are tied behind his back and secured to a pulley. He is then hoisted off the ground. Once the victim is suspended in mid-air, the torturer has three options. The first is leaving the victim dangling. This causes intense pain and possible dislocation of the shoulders. The second option is to add a series of drops, meaning the victim is dropped partway, several times in a row. This not only causes more pain than the first form of Strappado, it can lead to broken shoulders. And finally, the third option, is tying the victim's hands to the front and hanging him from his hands. The ankles are also tied together and heavy weight is attached to them. Besides intense pain, this method also causes serious damage to the arms, hips, and legs. The term Squassation is actually more accurate to name the last option. Weights can be added to the body as well in the first two forms of Strappado. The signature of all forms of Strappado is that there is little visible damage on the outside of the victim's body.

I have chosen this torture method as story title because our beloved squint squad will experience a few horrid events similar to the sudden jerks I mentioned earlier. Someone is out to get them and by pursuing them and making their lives miserable, he has theoretically hoisted them off the ground, has added weights, and is dropping them as sudden and as vicious as he pleases.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Before we begin this lovely new adventure, I'd like to thank **Faux Maven**. When real life dragged my regular beta (the great M) away, you were kind enough to offer me your services. I cannot thank you enough! Not only did you introduce me to the concept of theme chapter titles (just so you all know, the theme I use for Strappado is 'torture'), but you are amazingly thorough and incredibly fast with bumping my chapters back. Not a single detail escapes you and you don't hesitate to speak your mind; just how I like it. All the time you have invested in this story's time line -- working out the main story lines, fine tuning them, and doing a bit of research -- know that it is greatly appreciated! I hope our 'collaboration' will continue this way.

That being said...Grab your flashlights/candles/torches and follow me as we descend into the dark and gloomy world of **_Strappado_**! And before I forget, this chapter was inspired by the song **It's All Over **by **Three Days Grace**.

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**- I -**

**-- THE SKULL SPLITTER --**

_The Skull Splitter -- Such a lovely medieval torture device. Imagine an angel's halo being placed on your head. On the inside of the halo there are about ten very pointy spikes and on the outside there are one or two screws and sometimes two handles. Once the Skull Splitter is securely locked around your head, the screws are tightened, slowly driving the spikes into the side of your skull and causing excruciating pain. In the extreme, your torturer could grab the handles and jerk you from side to side or he could hoist you into the air by the aforementioned handles, resulting in the removal of the top of your head or the fracture and severing of your upper spine, which apparently is known as internal decapitation._

_In this chapter, the man who is after our squints, has chosen his victim, placed an imaginary Skull Splitter on their head, and is slowly tightening the screws until at some point the halo becomes so tight, his victim's skull explodes._

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**_Thursday November 15 - Somewhere in Washington D.C. - 21:03_**

It was a dark and dreary night. One that usually formed the ominous décor of mysterious tales of horror, but accurately described the time of day when a lonesome figure pulled the front door shut. He didn't bother to double-check whether the door was truly locked. Though he didn't want anyone breaking into his magnificent two-storied mansion that was sure to attract petty low life thieves as well as the more professional kind, the seven foot gate with bars as thick as a closed fist and the expensive professional burglar alarm he had installed gave him all the reassurance he needed. No unexpected visitors would dare crossing into his territory. In case there was a burglar foolish enough, the extra security precaution he had taken would surely scare him off.

He smiled as he caught sight of a pair of vicious looking Doberman Pinschers staring at him from behind the solid iron bars of their cage. He went up to them and opened the cage. They immediately disappeared into the dark. As silently as possible, they would tour his property and guard all entrances. Him they wouldn't harm since he had trained them since they were puppies. To any other trespassers they would not be merciful. He had trained all hesitation out them because he could not risk them forgetting their mission. His collection was too precious to be stolen away.

Nodding decidedly, he zipped up his jacket and swung his medium-sized bag over his shoulder. He turned, smiling broadly, and moved across his larger than average driveway. His footsteps crunched loudly on the gravel and mixed with the soft tune he began humming. All thoughts of his dogs and his valuable collection were forgotten since his mind was already elsewhere. He had waited for a night as cold and pitch-black as this one. The dark would effectively cloak the first step in his plan for revenge.

His heavy Caterpillar boots led him to a black SUV parked further down the driveway, close to the gate protecting his property from the world outside. The yellow-orange light from the porch cast upon the dark metal was reflected by the side mirror as he opened the door on the driver's side. His oddly shaped, but light-weight bag was tossed on the passenger seat. Without granting his home, dogs or anything else behind him a second glance, he summoned the car to life with a flick of the ignition key, opened the gate, and sped off. At about nine in the evening, on a gloomy Thursday evening with mist threatening to take over the streets, it didn't take him long to leave the outskirts behind and wander through the street network of downtown D.C.

The car came to a stop across from a tall building that shot up out of the ground like an overgrown mushroom. Squinting in the darkness, he broodingly stared at the apartment building. Because he had thoroughly surveyed and had explored the area during tedious and carefully planned out walks, it didn't take him long to scan the familiar perimeter for unusual activity. Everything was quiet and exactly as he had anticipated. His attention turned to the apartment building again. His trained eyes raked every brick and every window before coming to a stop on a faint light glowing like the weak flame of a candle almost entirely burned up from a window on the fifth floor.

_Perfect._

The corners of his mouth turned upwards in a satisfied and slightly sadistic grin. She was right on schedule. He hadn't expected anything else from her. Whenever she was examining remains or even when she was doing every day things like going out for groceries or doing laundry, he had observed that she had her routines. A sense of adventure was an inerasable part of her character, but so were logic and fixed patterns. She was as punctual as an atomic clock, a creature of habit at heart.

If he wasn't mistaken---and he hardly ever was---she was entertaining someone at the moment. His name was John Percy. They had met at the supermarket three blocks from where she lived, at the end of aisle six, while simultaneously reaching for the same orange. From that moment on, John had become a regular visitor of her apartment on the fifth floor. For the past three months they had gone out for a bite to eat three times a week, always on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Afterwards they would go up to her apartment and John wouldn't descend again before midnight. It was one of her first patterns he had picked up on.

His satisfied smile grew sour. She didn't deserve John, or any other man for that matter. She didn't deserve luck---not one bit, not even a glimmer. Not after she had mocked his intelligence, had escaped the horrible fate he had doomed her with, and had plainly ridiculed his devious intentions by staying alive. But the tables were about to turn. With what was safely tucked away in his bag on the passenger seat he would settle the score and would tip the balance in his favor.

Not wasting anymore time while gazing up longingly, he grabbed his things and left the warmth of his car. He tried to move poised and purposefully, but his long and somewhat hasty strides betrayed exactly how eager he was to restore his honor. As he rounded his SUV and stepped onto the sidewalk, he furtively glanced around ensuring that everything was still quiet. The streets were pretty much deserted. The couple walking on the other side of the street probably hadn't noticed him because of his black burglar-like attire and the woman on his right side moving closer probably took him for someone with a peculiar love for black clothes who had just returned from a trip. The bag slung over his shoulder was meant to support the latter idea.

Because he didn't want to raise any suspicion, he vaguely nodded at the woman before casually strolling over to the entrance door of the apartment building that was the twin sister of the building he had studied two minutes ago. When he tried the door, he was pleased to find it open. It would have been out of the ordinary if it had been locked. His intense survey of both hers as well as the neighborhood's habits had taught him that the main entrance doors were locked at precisely ten in the evening. As he pushed the door open, he checked his watch. 21:32---_perfect_. He would be out again before the janitor would come out of his apartment with a set of keys dangling from his fingertips.

The entrance hall was crossed briskly. The elevator was with him in no time. It seemed almost ridiculous how casual he was standing in the center of the elevator cage, his bag hanging from his right shoulder and the fingers of his left hand tucked in the front pocket of his dark jeans. Every time the light indicated a new floor, he felt satisfaction poking his insides. Across the street she was having a pleasant evening without any thoughts of unexpected disasters occupying her mind. He was going to change that. He was going to teach her a lesson. Nobody outsmarted him without paying dearly as a consequence.

At last the elevator reached the sixth floor. Again he walked briskly. He followed the hallway down to apartment 6E. Muffled sounds of music, of televisions playing rather loudly, and of children causing trouble because they had to go to bed, reached him through the closed doors he passed. These families were going about their everyday lives, unaware of the despair and horror he was about to spread. Though unnecessary, his eyes flicked through the hallway one last time to ensure he really was alone. Then he knelt down on one knee and pulled a set of lockpicks out of his back pocket. He carefully inserted two crooked needles into the lock and fumbled around for a bit. Not half a minute later he heard a distinct click. The door swung open soundlessly.

After quickly having tucked away his tools, he entered the apartment he knew was empty. He immediately headed for the living room window. The faint glow in the opposite building was still there. It was created by a pair of lamps being lit in the living room. He could distinguish two figures sitting at a dining room table. A pair of candles on the table gave their faces a golden hue. The dark forms of presumably cutlery resting on empty plates suggested they had just finished dinner. In a few moments they would head over to the couch where they would talk while sipping wine. He had chosen that particular moment to attack. In the middle of their animated conversation, he would strike. They would never know what hit them. Well, one of them would, but wouldn't live to tell the other.

Firmly clutching his bag, he slid open the seven foot high glass doors leading to the patio. Flat 6E was located at the corner of the sixth floor. The modest terrace was built on the right side of the building, overlooking a rather broad courtyard in between two apartment buildings. During summer, the building's occupants would sit on their balconies and would watch the people on the other side of the courtyard do the same. But it wasn't a summery day. It was a dark Thursday night mid-November. Earlier that day, showers of drizzling rain had wetted the city streets. Now the sky was clearer than ever. There wasn't even a new moon tonight. He had made sure the night would be at its darkest for he did not want to be caught by bright beams of moonlight.

Once he had sought out the perfect spot to huddle down, he sat the bag at his feet and pulled the zipper open. The gritty noise echoed over the empty courtyard. Swiftly he retrieved all the parts he needed and quickly pieced them together. In less than a minute he had assembled a small caliber rifle, ready to use. As a finishing touch, he stretched a baby-bottle nipple over the end of the barrel. Why go out and buy a professional silencer when a simple nipple could do the trick? He set the stock against his shoulder and peered through the telescopic sight over the barrel right into her apartment. They seemed so close to him now, so vulnerable. Every laugh, every dancing lock of hair, a glimpse of milky white skin her plunging neckline revealed as she shifted---he caught it all and registered it minutely for future gloating.

As expected they stood up and started towards the couch. In a minute they would sit down. In the next two minutes, he would lock onto one of them and he would revel in the power laying a finger on the trigger brought. As soon as he pulled it, his victim's fate would be sealed. He imagined how the bullet would whiz through the air. When the bullet hit the window, it would spider-crack before bursting into a million pieces. The bullet would continue its journey unscathed until it connected with warm skin and drilled through it straight into the victim's skull. He almost shuddered with delight upon visualizing the panic that would consume her.

They were halfway the living room now. Much to his surprise she suddenly grasped John's arm to halt him. What was she up to now? He almost groaned as he witnessed her pull John's arm. She couldn't possibly tug him to her bedroom now, could she? Of all nights she could have chosen to act out of the ordinary, she had chosen tonight!_ She truly deserves her punishment, that bi_...He breathed out audibly when they approached the window. _Good girl,_ he thought. _Come closer so I can aim at your pretty little head._

They didn't stop at the window however. As John stole secret glances at a relaxed but reserved Brennan, she opened the sliding doors and stepped onto the patio. A twisted grin appeared on his face when he saw John followed her and imitated her stance by resting his forearms on the railing and leaning forward. Excitement raced through his veins and nearly made his hands shake. There would be no exploding window now, but only a clean shot and a dry thud as the body hit the ground. Thoughtfully he gazed at them. In just a few moments he would end one life and would ruin another. The power he felt was almost overwhelming.

As he pushed the safety off and laid his finger on the trigger again, testing the solid bend of the moon shaped hook, a sudden hesitation took him by surprise. He had not killed before. Not directly anyway. He had kidnapped people, had chained them to walls, and had shivered gleefully upon hearing them scream with horror as he brought out his tools; but he had never been this close to directly delivering death. Slowly choking the life out of a victim, for example, took time. It was a lengthy process of torture where the victim fought for every breath of air. Pulling a trigger and sending a bullet on its way was a different kind of business. The effect---death---would be immediate.

He was still hesitating when John leaned in to softly kiss her. Did he really want to become an angel of instant death? He would be no more than an ordinary murderer then. Gone would be his distinctive tactic of trapping his victims in secluded and confined spaces. Shaking his head, he tightened his grip on his rifle. His plan was flawless and remarkably well thought out, just like all of his other plans. The energy and thought put into the murder were the same. The only difference was the time in between capturing his victim and death. The outcome was the same either way---he took a life. He gritted his teeth confidently. He would carry this plan through every single stage, all the way, to the bittersweet end. His resolve hardened when her hands crept around John's neck. She had brought it upon herself. What he was going to do now was only a natural response to the humiliation she had rained upon him by escaping.

Through the telescopic sight he saw her chest heave because of her shallow breathing. She appeared to be turned on by John's kiss. He licked his dry lips as he caressed her skin, the nape of her neck, and the swell of her breasts with his eyes. What a desirable creature she was. How foolish she was, too, for thinking her ordeal had ended as soon as that bastard had pulled her out of that basement. He first stared at her auburn-reddish hair cascading lusciously over her back and shoulders, then zoomed in on her remarkably emotionless eyes. There was no spark to detect in their depths, as if she was mentally elsewhere. He lightly shook his head, uninterested because he honestly didn't care what she thought of her relationship with John. His lips were no more than a thin line when he locked onto his target.

"Goodbye Dr. Brennan," he murmured right before squeezing his finger and shattering her world into a million pieces.

The effect was immediate, as he had anticipated, and far more satisfying than he had imagined. All he heard was a not too loud pop and a delicious whizzing of air. John looked dumbstruck for a moment before his knees buckled. Blood trickled out of the small red dot in between his eyebrows as he staggered backwards. Brennan's face was a perfect picture of shock. Horrified she saw John roughly go down hitting the patio floor with a thud.

Grinning, he patiently waited in the shadows. Everyone in the area was still minding his own business. Not a single soul was aware of the spectacle he had carefully prepared. Soon Brennan would recover enough to call 911. The local police would gather in her apartment in a babel of confusion. All the while he would stay in the dark on the patio of apartment 6E. Nobody would spot him because no-one would think of looking at this balcony since the owner was away on a three month tour of Europe. In the hysteria that was surely to break loose, he would slip out of the apartment, would casually walk out of the building, and disappear into the night on his way to the next target.

As he sat there, going over the final steps of stage one in his plan, he felt the thrill of revenge fill him to the brim. Without averting his eyes from Brennan, who had sunk to her knees next to her most recent lover's lifeless body, he began shuffling backwards. He momentarily let her out of his sight to go inside the apartment where he almost respectfully placed his rifle on the coffee table in plain sight. He left the torn nipple where it was for the bastard to think about. _There, now he'll definitely find it. _He nodded satisfied and went back to the patio. There he huddled down again and was just in time to see Brennan pull out her cell phone. _Perfect_, he thought. _Good girl._ Soon the place would be invaded by local P.D. Soon he could slip away and meet his next victim. Soon...but not yet. All he could do now was revel in the power Brennan's panic flooded him with and gaze at the corpse whose fate it was to forever stare up at the night sky with glazed over eyes.

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_And so the game begins..._


	2. The Hanging Cage

**Author's note:** After a long week of waiting, the new chapter is here! It's not as dark as the first one so no need for your flashlights/candles/torches.

Thank you to all the readers who reviewed the first chapter, to those who have already put this story on their favourites list, and of course to those of you who found the first chapter intriguing enough to put it on story alert. Know that it is appreciated!

Massive thanks to **Faux Maven**. Besides correcting my grammar and spelling mistakes, you made useful suggestions and, more importantly, provided me with a gun. If it wasn't for you, I would have chosen a very impractical rifle. And of course lots of thanks for the 'discussion' we had on handcuffs. lol So thanks!

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**- II**** -**

**-- ****THE HANGING CAGE --**

_ The hanging cage or gibbet is a torture method mostly used in Europe where the Spanish Inquisition __kept people on their toes. After being tortured by other lovely devices, you are locked into a cage of wood or iron in the form of a human being. Then you are hung from a gibbet, a tree branch or a castle wall in either cities, towns or along rural routes. You can either be put on display and be freed after some time or you are forced to die a slow, brutal death as you are left to face hunger, thirst, and the elements (heat stroke and death because of extreme cold are common). Once you have died, your body is left inside until your flesh dissolves and your bones fall apart. Oh, and don't bother begging your relatives or friends to retrieve your body. There is a chance you are locked in a cage studded with nails that only a crow can enter._

_In the first chapter we left Brennan at poor murdered John's side. As t__he police invade her home, she is unable to stop them and must feel as helpless as you stuck in that hanging cage. Brennan has to endure the torture of being put on display before a handful of officers who are hungry to make an arrest as well as a pack of unwelcome spectators._

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_**Thursday November 15 - Outside Brennan's apartment - 22:15**_

Booth had never seen the place more crowded. Dozens of people were milling about at the apartment building's entrance doors. One look at the men and women clad in police uniforms trying to keep the other people, presumably citizens, at bay made Booth veer the SUV into the first available parking space he spotted. It was about 10:15 in the evening. Darkness had already settled over Washington D.C. leaving only numerous lamp posts and light shining from homes up to the task of chasing the night away in the city. Booth had been on his way to his partner's apartment building. Of course he had been well aware that it was a Thursday evening---a time Brennan recently had begun reserving for a certain man named John. Up until now Booth hadn't had the pleasure of meeting him, but that certainly wasn't Brennan's fault. She hadn't exactly tried to keep him a secret. Since Booth spent a great deal of time in her presence, the little hints she dropped had been more than obvious to pick up, especially since Brennan's subtlety was the equivalent of most people's bluntness. Those 'hints' hadn't so much enraged as shaken him. _Another dimwit in her bed_, he had resentfully thought. _Let's hope he won't break her heart or I'll break him._

Booth ruefully shook his head as he got out of his car to meet the disturbance outside. He was completely engulfed in his musings. The fact that there were police officers swarming the apartment building where Brennan lived had made him screech to a stop earlier, but didn't seem to penetrate his thoughts now. It was as if he lost his concentration---his grip---on reality whenever the concept of Brennan entertaining other men occupied his mind. At any other given time he would have elbowed through the crowd and would have raced to the fifth floor to check on his partner, but now...He felt a familiar feeling---something he vaguely labeled as a mix of jealousy and disappointment---stir in his stomach. For some time now they were partners. Before Brennan, he had never imagined how intertwined his life could become with that of a squint. Now she was with him twenty-four seven---half the time physically, most of the time mentally.

_Trouble_, he had thought when he had first set eyes on her. _Trouble_, had crossed his mind again when he had 'rescued' her from airport security. _Double trouble_, his conscious and something in a more southerly region shouted nowadays whenever their hands accidentally brushed or a look lingered too long. It was all accidental of course because, after all, they were only friends---best friends actually, but still just friends. An occasional spark set them on fire every now and then, but they had mutually and silently decided not to let that spark engulf their friendship. They chose to ignite relationships with other people instead. In Booth's case that had happened precisely two times---once with Brennan's superior Cam, and once again with Sam, short for Samantha. Well, those were his most recent flings. Rebecca and Tessa he deliberately ignored because he felt they belonged to a different part of his life, from long before he had realized just how often Brennan was on his mind.

Samantha had been a feisty red-headed lawyer, almost two heads shorter than him, and with a well known temper that could rise and fall in one breath. When Sam was on the warpath, the tide could turn in the most unexpected direction. Either she drove him in a corner while tirelessly throwing accusations at his head, or she ended up chaining him to the bed with his handcuffs and keeping him up almost the entire night. It had been a tempestuous, wildly emotional, and most of all, short-lived relationship. Looking back on his intense month with Samantha, Booth realized he had only used her as an outlet for all the different kinds of frustration he had been harboring for quite some time now---ever since he had met Brennan to be honest.

The times his mind had wandered towards a possible plan of trapping his partner in her office and pinning her to a wall, he had done so with Samantha. Whenever Brennan's stubborn streaks had gotten to him, he had deliberately caused an argument with Sam to blow off some steam. It had calmed him for a while, going home every night and knowing Sam would be there to stimulate him in one way or another, until one day Brennan had turned up on his doorstep. If he thought it had been awkward finding her at his door when Tessa was around, then he obviously hadn't anticipated how ridiculously embarrassed he had felt when Brennan had interrupted Samantha and him mid-lovemaking. Sam had taken one look at Brennan, had scrunched up her nose, and had stomped out of his house not caring that she was only wearing his shirt. She hadn't even bothered freeing Booth from his handcuffs, leaving him in nothing but a pair of boxers, metal bracelets, and an uncomfortable smile. Just as suddenly as Samantha had entered his life, she had vanished when she had laid eyes on Brennan. If only the men passing through Brennan's bed did the same as soon as they saw him.

Booth tightly clutched the file he had brought with him to serve as a pretext for visiting Brennan's place at this time of night. It was not unusual for him to be there after 10 P.M., but that was only when they were on a case. Right now they were supposedly working on separate cases, while they waited for a victim to turn up that would require both their skills so that the victim could be identified and the mystery could be solved. So without a case it would appear awkward for him to stop by her place for no particular reason; that's why he had brought the file. He was going to use it as a ticket for the spoil-Brennan's-night train. Booth sighed as he absent-mindedly noted the different slap of his shoes on a wet street. _Stupid weather, _he groaned in his head. _Stupid November weather. Stupid Thursday evening. Stupid John. _His presence would be awkward anyway, especially when Brennan had made it clear that she didn't want to be disturbed tonight. But how could Booth not do so? Telling him to steer clear from her place was like telling Hodgins and Zach to stop racing beetles---a pointless request that would never be granted. Especially because he had a bad feeling about that John-guy. He had wriggled himself into Brennan's life too fast and too smoothly for Booth's liking. He would have to be careful and keep a close eye on his partner for the time being.

The crowd of curious spectators didn't part when Booth tried to approach the entrance door. He sighed and began pushing past them. Sidestepping a pregnant woman, rounding a young man who was gaping upwards without making any attempt of closing his mouth, and brushing past an elderly couple staring up and pointing to the building in front of them, Booth slowly made his way through the dense group of people. All the while he kept thinking how he could properly explain his reason for showing up uninvited at her door. He couldn't just flat out confess that he wanted to check out whoever was responsible for that foolish smile she had been wearing the last couple of weeks. If he dared stating he had a hunch John was not on the up-and-up, Brennan would hurl one of her travel souvenirs at his head. Claiming that he desperately needed her signature, the excuse he at first had thought of using, wasn't a good enough reason either because...All thoughts, as well as color, drained from him when he glared at a woman who suddenly jabbed her finger at something above them and he absent-mindedly followed her pointing.

Right above them, on the fifth floor, on the balcony Booth was certain belonged to Brennan, were four people standing. One of them appeared to be a police officer. Even in the dim light of the lamp-posts Booth could distinguish his uniform. The two standing next to the police officer he unfortunately immediately identified. Their blue jumpsuits were too familiar for him to not recognize. They could either be crime scene investigators or attendants from the coroner's office. Either way, their presence meant trouble. The fourth person...Booth's breath hitched when he locked onto a wild mass of auburn-reddish locks and a glimpse of pale skin. In no time Booth was wrestling his way through the crowd as if his life depended on it. He roughly shoved past a kid about eighteen years old who was staring upward with an ear to ear grin and nearly poked a man's eye out with the file he was holding because he was attempting to swim instead of push his way to the entrance door.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth," he stated as he flashed his badge at the man guarding the door. Booth figured using his authority as FBI agent would be the fastest way to get to the fifth floor. As a plain civilian he would be held back like all those eager men and women drumming for a glance of blood behind him.

"A Fed?" The man Booth had addressed whistled in awe. "I knew you guys were fast, but this is just..." He whistled again, grinning as well this time. When he saw Booth's impatient glare, he quickly stepped aside to let him pass. "It's on the fifth floor. You better brace yourself. It ain't a pretty sight."

Those words made Booth hurry even more. He had just seen Brennan standing on her balcony, very much alive, but that didn't mean she couldn't be hurt. Doing his best to keep himself centered, Booth poked the button several times to call for the elevator. He almost sighed in relief when the doors finally slid open. It was ridiculous of him to worry so much. He mentally corrected himself. It wasn't ridiculous to care about his partner. It was only stupid to get so worked up over probably nothing. But then his muscles tensed and his stomach churned. Who was he trying to kid? Police wouldn't invade her home if everything was alright. They only showed up when something bad happened. And in this case that something bad involved his partner. All the way up to the fifth floor Booth tried to calm himself. He had always been quite an emotional man, but when it concerned Brennan, his emotions got the better of him for some unknown reason. Whereas he normally would worry just enough like every other person, his spine was as stiff as a board and he was swallowing nervously. He vaguely wondered when his feelings for his partner had spun so out of control, but his mind was already set on other matters---what was going on at Brennan's apartment to be more specific.

The second the elevator doors opened, he burst through them and hurried down the hallway. He walked rapidly past two police officers who were questioning Brennan's neighbors and skidded to a stop once he had passed the apartment's threshold. In the middle of Brennan's tidy living room he found her staring numbly at a man in uniform who kept firing questions her way. He had a pen and a small notebook similar to Booth's in his hand just in case Brennan gave him a useful or valuable piece of information. But by the looks of Brennan's absent gaze and the crease on the man's forehead, she wasn't cooperating. Booth's eyes briefly flicked from Brennan's arms tightly folded over her chest to the empty plates on the dining room table. Then he eyed the two men in blue---they were from the coroner's office he could now conclude---who were laying out a large bag the size of a human being. _God no_, he mentally moaned. _Please don't tell me..._A glance at the lifeless body with grayish skin and a thin line of blood running down the man's face out of a small round hole in his forehead confirmed his initial conclusion. Brennan's latest boyfriend had been shot. He crossed the room with a couple of long strides.

"Bones, what the hell happened?" His exasperated bark with a tinge of worry annoyed the police officer questioning her, but seemed to pull Brennan out of her paralysis.

"Booth," she mumbled surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to...Never mind, it doesn't matter." He fiddled around with the file he had meant to use as a poor excuse, tempted to throw it on the table next to a pair of empty dinner plates. But since he didn't want to contaminate the crime scene, he stopped fiddling and went back to staring at his partner. "Answer the question, Bones. What went down here?" Brennan frowned and was about to reply when the officer, slightly ticked off because Booth had interrupted his interrogation, butted in.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step back. We're in the middle of an investigation here." He tried his best to sound dominant. He even put up a hand as if he wanted to push Booth out of the apartment, but thanks to the nervous twitching of the corners of his mouth his entire authoritarian appearance was not very convincing.

Booth ignored his feeble attempts at sending him away and instead crossed his arms and harshly said, "You call this an investigation? Your buddy downstairs let me through the second he saw my badge. If you're not careful, anyone waving something badge-like around can waltz in here and compromise our crime scene!"

"_Our_ crime scene? Sir, I don't think this is..."

"Yeah whatever, pal," Booth interrupted him. "Why don't you go play with your officer friends while I handle this, alright? Great, thanks." He was about to turn his back to the young police officer, but changed his mind. "Oh, and do you think you could put this somewhere safe? Preferably in an area that's already cleared?" he said as he thrust the file at the young man. The officer sighed, accepted the file, and walked away to leave the file in a cleared corner where his colleagues had set down their equipment. Booth nodded satisfied. In a matter of seconds he had taken over the investigation and had everyone accept him as the new lead. Just how he liked it. Without further ado Booth turned and gently lifted his hands to Brennan's face. "You alright there, Bones?" he murmured as he tilted her head from side to side to check for scratches, blood, or anything that might look worth worrying over.

She swatted his hands away. "I'm fine," Brennan sharply returned. Her arms rapidly went back to being folded across her chest.

"You're not fine." Booth sighed deeply as her eyes flickered dangerously. It would be of no use arguing with her over her sanity right now. He brought his hands up again, this time to grip her upper arms. "What happened here?" he asked for the third time, staring straight at her with the intention to match her words with what he saw roaming in the depths of her eyes.

"We were outside, John and I, when..." She quickly looked away, wetted her lips, and hesitantly turned back to meet Booth's stare. "John was shot...a single round to the head. I have no idea where it came from. It happened too fast for me to see. He fell to the ground before I understood what was going on."

"John as in John your boyfriend?" From the corner of his eye, Booth saw police photographers shoot several series of pictures of the patio and of the body before it could be moved. . His stomach churned upon catching sight of grey matter mixed with blood trickling down the neck. The image, however, also made him frown. Was the exit wound supposed to be this low if Brennan had shot him? Embarrassment immediately washed over him. Like any other cop, he suspected right away the only other person who had been with the victim in the same room at the time of the murder. Brennan hadn't shot him; she would never. If John had attacked her, her first instinct would have been to kick him somewhere down south, not blow his brain all over the patio.

"No, as in ex-boyfriend." Brennan's tone had turned sharp as razorblades again and shook Booth out of his thoughts. She was pointedly eyeing him as if she had read his mind two seconds ago. One of his hands pushed back his jacket and found his hip as Booth thoughtfully stared at his partner. She was panic-stricken. Of course she was. Nothing made Brennan turn cold faster than frightfully strong emotions. Brennan stared him straight in the eyes. "John was shot," she said next in a monotonous voice. "There's an entry wound in his forehead and an exit wound on the back of his neck. Only the lower half of his skull is shattered. A close up shot would have had a different outcome."

Booth nodded confirming. "You know these things better than me. I believe you, Bones." When he turned, he saw the coroner's assistants wrap the body bag around John's corpse. They zipped up the bag and lifted it onto a stretcher. When they rolled the stretcher past them, Booth stopped them. He wasn't a fan of remains, whether they were still fleshy, juicy or already reduced to a pile of bones, but something about the entry wound was nagging in the back of his mind. Though he had only caught a glimpse of John's head, something had felt off. So he stopped the stretcher, opened the bag, and examined the clean, rather small, bullet wound. As he did so, he casually asked Brennan, "What kind of a man was John? Did he have, you know..."

"A blood link to Al Capone?" Brennan dryly retorted. "He was an honest man, Booth. John had no enemies." Booth gritted his teeth. So this was no drive by or a settlement of an account. He turned back to the bullet wound. "I'm no expert," Booth began slowly, "but I have to agree here. If you shot him, the entire back of the skull would be a mess, not just half." Brennan nodded in agreement.

"The exit wound is too low," she said. "Only someone considerably taller could have shot him from that angle."

"Or a sniper," Booth grimly added. Upon feeling all eyes turn on him, he straightened up. "They were outside. The shot could have easily come from across the street. I would start by searching the opposite building." The young officer agreed to both Brennan's as Booth's surprise. But Booth's next observation stopped him from sending someone to check out Booth's theory. Booth was leaning over the corpse again. "There's something wrong with this bullet hole. Most sniper rifles are military. Commercial .308 Winchester slugs or NATO 7.62 x 51 mm rounds are commonly used for those rifles, but they would have caused a much larger wound. This one is too small." He squinted as he rounded the stretcher to look at the wound from a different angle. Suddenly he cursed. "I bet it's from a .22 caliber rifle. Both military and terrorist snipers have been known to use small caliber rifles in close urban settings. Maybe our sniper is no ordinary shooter. He seems to prefer unconventional rifles," he finished, cold anger ringing loud and clear in his voice.

Booth was charging for the front door in no time. Brennan hastily walked after him. She skidded to a stop, wearing a dangerous scowl, when he turned and pointed at one of her couches. "Sit, Bones. You are not coming with me." Seeing Brennan was on the verge of exploding, Booth's face softened. He gestured more gently at the couch now. "You can't leave now. I'm sure there are some CSIs on the way, ready to check you for gunpowder residue." Brennan defiantly crossed her arms and her glare turned even darker. Booth's stomach turned when it dawned on him Brennan was shaken up enough she didn't want to be left alone in a situation where she usually was on the other side, examining the scene as a forensic anthropologist. Being treated as a potential murderer despite Booth's conclusions and being subjected to all the tests she knew were mandatory unsettled and annoyed her more than she was willing to admit. The fierce glint in her eyes an attempt to hide her panic told Booth enough though.

"You know the deal, Bones," he softly spoke so only she could hear him. "They'll probably want to keep an eye on you at least until tomorrow morning." He tried to smile reassuringly. "You know what? After I've confirmed my sniper theory, I'll come back and keep you company until everyone has cleared off." A frown appeared on his face. "Maybe then you could explain why you didn't call me."

"Booth, I..." Brennan started.

"Later, Bones. Now _sit_," Booth ordered again before turning and striding out.

Three police officers promptly followed him. They would have never guessed this to be a sniper murder. Booth on the other hand found himself seething inside. His partner's boyfriend, as much as he had loathed him even though he had never set eyes on the guy, had been gunned down by a murderer taught the same skills as Booth. Booth would never try to justify his actions as right, but at least he had shot dangerous men capable of killing dozens of people, not some innocent man who happened to be out on a patio with an anthropologist. Flanked by the three officers, Booth pushed through the still dense crowd, ignoring the questions thrown at him, and swiftly crossed the street. He halted on the sidewalk to inspect the building. Most of the lights were on, except on the sixth floor. In the apartment farthest along the right side there was not a single light lit. Seeing that everyone else had left their lights on in their haste to view a blood spectacle, he had a feeling the apartment was empty and thus an ideal hide-out for a sniper.

Booth confidently entered the building and was pleased to see a man with a set of keys---probably the janitor---come rushing in after them, obviously meaning he wouldn't be tempted to shoot the door lock. All five of them rode up to the sixth floor and went down the hallway, the policemen checking open apartment doors just to be sure. The janitor used his key to open the door, leaving Booth to note either his hunch about the apartment was wrong or the lock had been picked earlier.

As he drew his gun and carefully walked inside, Booth's anger suddenly flared and a loud curse escaped him. Before him, neatly arrayed on the glass coffee table, put on display as if it was a crown jewel, lay a black and brown sniper rifle. It was a Russian SV-99, exactly one meter long, designed to the technical requirements of SPETSNAZ---Russia's special force. The nipple from a baby bottle stretched over the end of the barrel to serve as a silencer. The sniper had obviously left it behind for someone, maybe even for Booth himself to find. As a more than clear message it said that John's shooting was no accident; it was straight-out murder. They had a madman on their hands.

* * *

_Can you say "dum dum dum dummm"?_


	3. The Cat's Paw

**Author's note:** (tiptoes in and carefully places a big flashing WARNING - BEWARE OF DARKNESS sign in front of the reader) There, that should be clear enough. :)

As always, major thank you to **Faux Maven**. I am giving credit where credit is due. Half of the explanation of this chapter title I owe to her. Thanks to her clear and precise observations, I did some research and turned a so-and-so first draft into what it is now. Like you said, Faux Maven, a bit of shake and bake can do wonders sometimes! And I couldn't have pulled it off without you. But you know that, right?

* * *

**- III -**

**-- THE CAT'S PAW --**

_The Cat's Paw or Spanish Tickler __is, as its second name hints, one of the most fun toys of the Spanish Inquisition. Just like a real cat's paw it has four nails. Well, four long bent spikes really. They are basically an extension of the torturer's hand. Some Cat's Paws are attached to a pole so the torturer can use it from a distance; torturers who prefer a more personal touch hold only the paw itself. The Cat's Paw is used to tear away the flesh of the victim. If you have the misfortune of being submitted to the Spanish Tickler torture, first you are stripped naked, then the flesh from your limbs is scraped away. Because of the shape and size of the Cat's Paw, neither bones nor muscles are spared. After your limbs have been torn apart, they move up your back and torso and eventually scratch your face away. It is a most gruesome torture method, I must admit._

_(Un)Fortunately there are two other meanings which are far less cruel (1) the Cat's Paw is a light breeze that ruffles the surface of the water in irregular patches during a calm and (2) another meaning is known from the fable of the monkey that used a cat's paw to draw chestnuts from the fire. It is used by the monkey as a tool to obtain what he wants._

_In chapter three, our Madman goes after another member of __the Squint Squad. The one he chases fights back like a cat, hence the chapter title, and eventually...Well, you'll just have to read and find out. ;-) The other meanings of the Cat's Paw fit as well. It's after John's shooting, after Booth has discovered the sniper rifle. What happens now is disturbance ruffling the surface of Brennan's and her friend's lives. And of course, since Madman goes after another squint, he uses his victim as a tool for his plan._

* * *

_**Thursday November 15 - **__**Rockville, Maryland - 22:37**_

So far time was on his side. The night was still very much dark and dreary---perfect for stage two. He'd strike them hard, her small select group of eccentric scientists. In less than twenty-five minutes from now he'd execute the next part of his plan. It would bring her to her knees. Then he'd disappear, but only for a short while. He'd vanish into thin air, would give Brennan time to get back on her feet, and would then return with a vengeance. His eyes flickered intensely dangerous and a low, satisfied grunt rumbled in the back of his throat. She would have been better off if she had been left chained to his basement wall. After he was done with her, she would wish that was the way it had gone.

He snorted as he thought back to the events of a little over an hour ago. Just like he had predicted, local police had come barging in minutes after he had pulled the trigger. From his first row seat on the sixth floor of the opposite building, he had witnessed a group of four officers invade her apartment and drag her away from John's corpse. His lips had been frozen into a cold and calculated smile ever since he had caught sight of the mask of appalling horror she had been wearing. _Serves you right, Dr. Brennan_, he had wanted to yell. _Serves you fucking right for escaping your fate!_ But he had restrained himself. Shouting or even making the slightest sound would have betrayed his position. So he had been patient, like a spider lurking in the corner of his web waiting for a foolish fly. A bit before ten P.M., he had silently slipped out of the unoccupied apartment he had appropriated and even more silently had used the stairs to descend all six floors. Attracting attention by using the elevator was out of the question. Downstairs he had found the entrance doors unlocked. His smile had turned victorious as he thought_ I love it when a plan comes together_. The doors were wide open inviting him to slip through and disappear into the night.

He had stayed, though, for ten more minutes. Hearing the excited murmurs of a bloodthirsty crowd had teased his senses. It had felt a bit like what the emperors of ancient Rome had done thousands of years ago. Give the people entertainment and they will worship you as if you were God himself. As he had stood there, reveling in the pain, misery and shock he had caused, an SUV he was familiar with thanks to his observations of Dr. Brennan, had pulled up. With avid interest he had seen her partner stare at the crowd gathered in front of her building. He hadn't stayed long enough to catch a glimpse of the horror her partner was bound to experience upon realizing it concerned his anthropologist, but he could easily visualize the agent's actions and facial expressions. _I'll see you in a few, buddy_, he had thought full of hatred as he had gotten into his car.

In just about half an hour he had traded downtown D.C. for wealthy Rockville, second biggest city of 'America in Miniature', officially known as Maryland. Rockville looked picture postcard perfect. Thanks to recent improvements every house looked neat and cozy, trees lined straight and tidy streets, and some areas were now pedestrians only. Because it was an hour to midnight, lamp posts threw warm glows on parked cars and on a lonely pedestrian making his way home. Five minutes ago he had passed Saint Mary's Church where the grave of F. Scott Fitzgerald was located. For a city this size, Rockville breathed out a remarkable feeling of welcome and homecoming. The corners of his mouth twitched. In about ten minutes time, the peaceful mood of this city would be ruined for a particular someone and would be forever associated with a horrid memory.

He chuckled as he drove on, confidently turning left and right until he reached Beall Avenue. There he took the second street on his right and ended up on Maryland Avenue where he steered his car to the curb and killed the engine. He would have to walk from here on because his destination, Town Square Plaza, was a pedestrian zone. Without uttering so much as a single word, he got out of his car and followed the sidewalk. With the Rockville library on his right, he moved down the street keeping a close eye on his surroundings.

As he turned the corner and crossed the plaza, he glanced over his shoulder at the three-storied building on his right hand--- the Metropolitan Center for the Visual Arts, VisArts in short. Recently built and opened only two months ago, VisArts was easy on the eyes with its clean, straight-cut architecture. On street level there was a contemporary craft shop, on the second floor three galleries could be found, and on the third floor...His lips twitched again. The third floor housed the teaching areas. There naked men stood proudly in front of classes of women, men chipped away with chisels and hammers on marble, and other people threw entire buckets of paint against a canvas or sang off key while they were up to their elbows in clay. Every Thursday evening she came, that long legged, dark haired vivacious woman with soft brown eyes and an infectious smile. Once a week she spent three full hours here, living out her wildest artistic dreams and absorbing new drawing techniques. Why she visited this particular art centre in Maryland while she had all the artistic freedom she needed in Washington D.C. he could never comprehend, but it made stage two of his plan all the easier.

A glance at his watch told him it was four minutes to eleven---only four more minutes to go until show time. He pulled up the hood of his jacket, adjusted his scarf covering his mouth and part of his nose, and pressed himself against the sturdy tree trunks of a small group of trees planted on the far left side of the plaza. The surprising yet delicious coldness seeping out of the bark took him back to the walls of his basement dripping with filthy water from sewers. In between a particularly coppery stream of fluids and a light greenish spot of mold spreading across the dull grey stones, he had chained her. It had been December, almost a full year ago. The air in his basement had been chillingly cold, near the freezing point. Every time someone talked or only opened their mouth, their breath turned into a cloud of hot mist evaporating and blending slowly with the frigid air filling the confined space. How beautiful she had looked, with her piercing blue eyes shooting daggers at him, as he had taunted her over and over again by dangling the keys in front of her nose while teasingly tracing her cheeks and jaw bones. Once she had nearly bitten his finger off, which had resulted in a nasty kick in the gut for her.

How tempting it had been to rip her clothes off and admire the way the cold made her nipples stand out. How awfully close he had come to raking his nails down her smooth skin and hearing her screams echo through his basement. He had loved seeing her jerk and fight against her restraints as he slapped her face from side to side hoping to see it turn all shades of the rainbow before his very eyes. Unfortunately he had never gotten a chance to finish his latest project. Before he could have gotten his tools out, the silent alarm he had installed had gone off. He had just fled his basement through a secret hatch when her partner had burst through the door, gun ready and his eyes full of murderous intent.

Well, there would be no heroic FBI-agent around now to save the damsel in distress. He'd take her innocence and he'd take it good. Since she liked art so much, he wondered how she'd feel about becoming a piece of art herself. With her arms sprawled out, one leg drawn up, and her head slightly rolled to the side as if drifting off to sleep---that's how he'd display her. He'd ravish her body, would leave bloody scratches all over her chest, arms and thighs. In the end, he would dip his fingers in the paint and Chinese ink she carried with her and smudge it all over her skin. She'd suffer---suffer beyond words---and her suffering would make her best friend suffer. He was determined to torment her friend badly enough to make Brennan howl out in pain.

His eyes flickered with anticipation when a group of eccentrically dressed people exited the art centre. They were the only group to leave at this time of night. It was as if fate was giving him a hand at this point. All other classes usually ended at 9 P.M., which would have interfered with his plan, but fortunately her class was an exception. It worked beautifully with how he wanted his plan to unfold.

He easily picked her out, because of her sparkling laugh and well-cut, expensive clothes. Within the next two minutes the group fell apart. Some people headed for the bus stop, others for the subway, which were both a block away. Four people made their way to the parking garages situated behind the ring of stores circling Town Square Plaza. The dark-haired beauty waved at them and started towards Gibbs Street where a fancy red sports car was waiting for her. Her rich fool of a boyfriend would be behind the wheel. He always parked just around the corner because he wanted to kiss her senseless right after she had gotten into the passenger seat. There had been an evening or two when they had stayed around the corner for more than twenty minutes, without a doubt fooling around. That was probably the reason why the car was always parked so far away from the exit. No-one wanted to be disturbed as things heated up. Foolish playing around usually made him sick. Where was the fun if you didn't make your partner writhe with pain? But tonight their childish games would work in his advantage. He'd steal her away right from under rich boy's nose.

Not bothering to withdraw in the shadows his tree provided, he tailed her with his eyes as she casually strolled down the plaza staying close to the arts centre. He glanced around the tree trunk to judge if her class mates were out of hearing range. Then he moved a bit to the side to measure the distance from where he was to the corner of the street. He was about halfway. And so was she apparently. During the minute he had needed to assure himself there were no spectators, she had moved away from VisArts and was nearing the fountain, about ten yards on his left. He nodded.

_Perfect._

Without any warning he lunged forward, closed the short distance between them, hooked an arm around her waist, and covered her mouth with his hand to silence all shrieks. Ignoring her protests and avoiding the kicks she aimed at his shins, he dragged her to the group of trees where he had been hiding. He wanted to throw her down, but she was smart enough to hold on to his arm and hook her foot around his ankle, thereby forcing the both of them to the pavement. A disgruntled groan escaped him. He wasn't supposed to be lying on the ground too. _Stupid little piece of shi_...Moments later he gasped for air when her elbow plunged hard in his stomach. He cried out when she bit down on his hand still covering her mouth. Without bothering to look who he was, she rolled away and got up on her knees intending on making a run for it. That wasn't going to happen when he was around; there was no way he letting her escape!

He dove forward, right onto her back forcing her flat onto the cold and stony ground wetted by spray of the fountain. Now it was her turn to be out of air. Smelling a golden chance, he wiggled around a bit, until he was straddling her and had effectively locked his fingers around her wrists. He lifted himself up a bit leaning heavily on her lower body and hands. She kept perfectly still, probably afraid for her life. A sadistic grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. Now that he had her under control, he was going to play around a bit. He raised himself into a kneeling position with his knees boring down into the back of her knees and forcing her hands behind her back. Not a sound was heard except for the clear sparkling of the nearby fountain. He frowned and pulled some more on her arms---again no sound. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She was meant to moan in pain when he roughly tugged at her wrists.

Still frowning because of her silence, he got up to his feet and dragged her up too. Her body uncoiled like a spring and before he was aware of what was happening, her fist came flying at his face with merciless speed. She punched his nose and drilled her stiletto heel into his foot. He jumped back in surprise and hurt. She turned and made a mad dash in the direction of Gibbs Street, but her attack hadn't discouraged him. With renewed vigor he went after her. He grabbed a handful of her curls and jerked her back---back to his tree, back to the fountain.

This time she couldn't help but make a sound. It wasn't the toe curling scream he had hoped for, but the pitiful whimpering she produced was enough as he pulled her back flush against his chest with an animalistic growl. He roughly and relentlessly roamed her chest, stomach and hips with raking fingers. She was frozen into place, barely breathing, until his hand disappeared under her short jacket, down the hem of her pants. He heard her cry of despair and sensed she was going to elbow him again, so he withdrew his hand and violently pushed her to the side. His shove sent her spinning around until she lost her balance and went down, roughly hitting her head on the stone side of the fountain. Stunned by of the impact, she could only raise herself onto her knees clutching the side of her head with a trembling hand. He smiled viciously. That was going to leave a nasty bruise.

_Perfect._

She tried to get up again, but he was upon her before she succeeded. The sound of a slap faintly resembling the crack of a whip resounded over the plaza and mixed with the ever-cheery splashing of fountain water when he hit her across the face with the back of his hand. With a thud and more whimpering she hit the pavement and curled up on her side. He turned her onto her back and again ran his hand across her lovely features. The whimpering stopped to his dismay. She should have been begging for her life by now. A request which he wasn't going to grant, but she didn't know that. She just laid there, one hand cradling her side, the other one clutching her head, and her vision blurry as blood welled from a cut in her forehead and trickled into her eyes. For a minute he was tempted to beat her senseless, until she screamed out to have mercy. Instead he straddled her, ripped her jacket open and threw her scarf over her head. The beautiful noise of clothes being torn apart filled his ears. A maniacal laugh was stuck in his throat. How he was going to enjoy this! He was going to strip her naked, leave his marks all over her, was going to make her scream out, was going to do everything he had wanted to do to her dear friend Dr. Brennan.

He suddenly cried out when she freed one of her arms and buried her fist in his stomach. What happened next took less than a minute, but he would forever remember the stabs of pain and embarrassment. She lashed out dragging her nails down his face. She karate chopped his sides with her hands as if she was trying to snap him in half, her knee flew up hard enough to diminish his crotch to nothing for the rest of his life, and finally she put one stiletto boot on his chest and kicked him off. With a smothered growl he landed on his side. He didn't move or try to stand, stunned by the pangs of pain shooting up from where he was protectively holding his hands, as he watched her scramble to her feet and run towards Gibbs Street. She stumbled, grabbed her bag two feet on, and without another look disappeared around the corner.

It took forever for him to work himself up onto his knees. Blood poured down his face as he slowly stood up. He would have to hide or, better yet, make a run for it. Any minute now her angry boyfriend would come hurtling around the corner bent upon revenge. If he wanted to live, he'd have to leave immediately and be patient until he got another chance to get his hands on Dr. Brennan's pretty best friend. But first he fished a small package out of his pocket. With the utmost care he deposited it on the side of the fountain. _If that bastard doesn't find it, he's even more stupid than I thought. _

While keeping his eyes on the empty baby-bottle nipple package, he wiped some blood away from his cheek and grimaced because of the stings his touch evoked. He turned and began crossing the plaza. He moved from shadow to shadow, careful not to be spotted by unforeseen passers-by, realizing he didn't have to kill the woman who had wounded him. Seeing her in her ravished state would surely hurt the good doctor a great deal. His face was grim and he felt like howling in rage. He was going to make Dr. Brennan pay, both for humiliating him by escaping his basement and for teaching her best friend about self-defense. But, despite the escape of his victim, he could easily move on to stage three of his plan without any problem. Only next time he'd have to be more careful, more prepared. His next victim would have to suffer even more because of his failure today.

* * *

_Are you still there? Really? Excellent. :) Then I'd like to use the opportunity to point out to whoever is interested and/or whoever has read __**Dying to Catch My Breath**__ that I've written and posted an additional scene. It's called__** Fearless Breathing**__ and you can find it on my profile. Thanks. :)_


	4. The Rack

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Before we dive into the world of Strappado, I'd like to guide those of you who are hungry for excellent fanfic to Human Puzzle in a Packing Crate. It is written by **Labsquint**, a dedicated writer I recently had the pleasure of getting to know. Crate has got a bit of everything -- action, suspense, scientific mumbo jumbo, and even some smut! Seriously, if you feel like reading something worth your time, Human Puzzle in a Packing Crate is the story to look up.

A sincere and collective thank you to everyone who reviewed, who added Strappado to their favorites and/or story alert list, and to those who thought me worthy enough for putting my name on author alert. I am flattered beyond words! As for **Faux Maven**...Damn woman, you saved this chapter and you know it! I cannot thank you enough for sticking with me and pushing me until we both thought this chapter was ready to be set free. I know I can be a handful, but you managed. To say this in very colorful terms: you rock Booth's striped socks! ;)

* * *

**- IV -**

**-- THE RACK --**

_No other torture device __has as many different names as the Rack. To the Romans it is known as 'Equuleus' (meaning 'young horse'), the French refer to it as 'Banc de Torture'. In Spanish it is 'Escalera' (meaning 'ladder') while it is 'Folter' (meaning 'frame') or 'Schlimme Liesel' (meaning 'fearful Eliza') in German. The Italians name this device 'La Veglia' and the British call it 'the Duke of Exeter's Daughter'. So many feminine names for a device that was considered one of the most fearful tools of torture in medieval times._

_The Rack consists of a rectangular wooden frame with a roller at one or both ends.__ The victim's feet are tied to a fixed bar at one end, and the arms are tied by ropes or chain to the top roller. As the interrogator increases the tension the victim's joints would slowly be pulled apart. Ultimately the victim's limbs could be torn from the body._

_In Greek mythology the bandit Procrustes was said to have a bed made of iron which he offered to __passers-by. Once the guest was asleep Procrustes adjusted the bed so that short guests had to be stretched, while tall guests had their head or feet cut off and fed to a giant tortoise. Procrustes died in his own bed after he was captured by Theseus who adjusted the bed to its shortest length and cut off Procrustes' head and feet._

_In the previous chapter Angela was assaulted but managed to escape. Now she will be stretched to recount her attack._

* * *

_**Thursday November 15 - **__**Shady Grove Adventist Hospital, Rockville - Close to midnight**_

Bitterness was all Booth tasted. It tasted foul in his mouth and slowly crept through his veins, poisoning him from the inside. If whoever had shot John had meant to hurt Brennan, he was doing a damn fine job at getting to Booth as well by turning him rigid with anger and spite. Booth had been outsmarted by a man who knew how to handle a rifle and draw up a masterful scheme. And if there was one thing Booth couldn't stand, it was having a cocky criminal one step ahead of him. His grip on the steering wheel painfully tightened when the image of the murder weapon waiting on the coffee table came to him. It had been deliberately put on display to tease and taunt him; Booth was sure of that. If he had doubted whether the message was truly for him, the baby-bottle nipple stretched over the barrel would have convinced him. It was a sign left for the professional sniper to read.

If Angela hadn't been assaulted, Booth would have firmly believed someone was out to get him and Brennan and them alone. But by attacking Angela, the murderer had clearly targeted their entire team as well. Booth felt a surge of bitter anger course through his body. As much as it pissed him off that someone had dared to lay a hand on the team's forensic artist, his mind was entirely focused on Brennan. Whoever was toying with them had succeeded at undermining Brennan's usual poised, rational behavior. By disturbing the predictable life she knew, he had thrown her off balance. On top of that, he had managed to stretch Brennan's confidence in Booth to the limit. After they had received a call from a frantic Hodgins explaining Angela was in the hospital, all of Booth's clever observations at the crime scene, his reassurance they would find whoever shot her boyfriend, and his tentative attempts at conversation had been swept off the table.

Being the one to break the news to her that she couldn't go and see Angela hadn't endeared him to Brennan. He had tried to be gentle when he reminded her of standard procedure, but he had been ignored. Booth had wanted to be offended, but had found he couldn't. In fact, he perfectly understood why Brennan had given him the silent treatment with a couple of dark glares added in as a bonus. They both knew Brennan couldn't simply walk away from a still active crime scene, not an hour after the murder, but somehow Brennan had hoped being his partner would make Booth grant her request. Though the rage of a murderer outwitting him had had him in its grip, it hadn't made him forget how to follow procedure. With mixed feelings he had left her in the hands of local police and a select FBI-team sent to the scene on his request.

A snort escaped him. If Brennan had been an average, boring scientist who loved spending entire days at the lab, none of this would have happened. Booth wouldn't have had to stand his ground and refuse Brennan. He wouldn't have had to witness how Brennan closed up and would certainly not have been tempted to kick himself for being the cause of her mental retreat. And he wouldn't be alone right now in Rockville, Maryland, on his way to check on her best friend who would probably not have been hurt in the first place if Brennan hadn't been teamed up with him. Both incidents---Angela's assault as well as John's murder---brought a familiar, uncomfortable feeling to the surface. He tried to shield Brennan from all the harm chasing bad guys brought, but it was only an illusion. He protected her with his life, but dumped her in the dark and bitter side of the world at the same time. Brennan knew this as well as he did. By demanding to be his partner, she had chosen to walk a very dangerous path. She had accepted the risks and perils that came with the job. She had accepted that horror, pain and death were an inerasable part of their everyday lives. They both led unconventional lives which sometimes---more often nowadays---made Booth wonder if in all the hassle their jobs brought with them, they couldn't find solace in each other. He blinked as he mentally reprimanded himself. _Focus._

Because of his thoughts, Booth barely took the time to throw the SUV in park and turn the engine off. With fingers cramped because of the intense mix of guilt, rage and hurry racing through his veins, he fiddled with his seatbelt until it finally popped open. He was out of the car quickly, locking the door electronically as he headed to the hospital entrance. As he briskly walked across the parking lot towards the Shady Grove Adventist Hospital, he clenched and relaxed his jaw muscles in rhythm with his hasty strides. Silently cursing the cold mid-November temperature, he dodged pools of water and rounded the few stray cars that blocked his path to the hospital entrance doors. A sudden chill wind pushed his jacket open and crawled up under his clothes causing goose bumps to race over his clammy skin. It wasn't the most pleasant evening to be out and racing across a hospital parking lot just as he had raced down the I-270, but Booth couldn't care less. All he wanted was to see how Angela was holding up, go back to D.C.---to Brennan---ASAP, and find out whoever was trying to bring them down.

When he stepped through the doors, Booth immediately scanned the area. Finding the E.R. as fast as possible was his top priority. He was tempted to pull the receptionist over her desk when she was a tad too slow for his liking when pointing him in the right direction of the E.R. As he walked away from her, his mind vaguely wandered to the possibility of the two attacks being connected somehow. In all of his years as FBI-agent, he had rarely dealt with coincidence. Two people he knew were the victim of something gruesome on the same night. If that wasn't 'coincidence', he didn't know what was. But with a shake of his head and a slight quickening in his pace, he pushed his assumptions to the back of his mind. He would visit the crime scene later, but now he just had to see Angela. Booth passed the elevator, turned a few corners, and bumped into a nurse who led him to one of the private examination rooms the E.R. counted. He walked straight into the room without a shimmer of hesitation. He had work to do.

"Angela," he addressed the fragile figure with hunched over shoulders sitting on the examination table surrounded by typically white hospital equipment and even more white walls. There was so much white it nearly hurt Booth's eyes.

As Angela cracked him a weak smile, Booth's gaze slid over the nasty looking cut covered in bright red blood crusts on her forehead. He gauged the swelling on her right cheek that was already starting to discolor, briefly halted on her split lip, and finally locked onto a pair of vicious looking scratches running down her neck until they were hidden from view by an oversized dark blue sweater. When Booth made eye contact again with Angela, all words escaped him. From Hodgins' nervous explanation Booth gathered that Angela had been attacked by a stranger and that she wasn't exactly a sight for sore eyes, but actually seeing her in this ravaged state was quite a different matter. Booth gritted his teeth and shoved his hands down into his pockets to hide his balled fists. He turned to Hodgins who was sitting next to Angela, tightly clutching her hand as if holding on for dear life. Hodgins gave him a curt nod before loosening his grip and concentrating on tenderly caressing Angela's hand. So Booth lifted his eyes to Angela again.

"You look like hell," he finally said. She smiled.

"You're one to talk."

Booth's hand flew up to his face as if he wanted to smooth away the lines engraved in his skin by anger, fatigue, and worry. The last two hours had completely drained him. It was close to midnight. Instead of watching television or being in bed, he was running from one crime scene to another. Worse yet, his night wasn't over. After speaking to Angela, he would have to leave her and drive back to D.C. where he'd probably have a hard time convincing Brennan to get some sleep while he stayed on her couch. In a way he didn't mind. At least it would give him the opportunity to keep an eye on her.

"It's been a rough night," Booth vaguely admitted. Until he had questioned Angela, he didn't want to break the news of John's murder to her. She would be entirely focused on Brennan then, instead of on his questions. He didn't want her to cut corners and leave out important details because of her worry.

"Tell me about it." Angela grimaced as she sat up straight. No doubt her injuries were hurting her. Hodgins murmured a few endearments and laced his fingers through hers. Booth had never seen Hodgins like this. It was as if he was scared and enraged at the same time...exactly how Booth felt upon recalling what happened in Brennan's apartment.

"Where's the other half of the dynamic duo?" Angela asked as she looked at him, pulling her lips into a small crooked smile. "I guess I can't blame her for not being here. This place isn't exactly what I would leave my warm and cozy bed for." She gestured around sarcastically, wincing quietly in pain. Booth noted how she was doing her very best not to move too much. Whoever had gotten to her had done it thoroughly.

"She couldn't come. I wouldn't let her," he said as he approached the examination table.

"You wouldn't let her?" Angela frowned.

"If it helps, it took a lot of convincing to make her stay behind. I was even tempted to handcuff her."

"Handcuffs? My, my, aren't we naughty? Welcome to the dark and spicy side," Angela quipped, but doubt and weariness were evident in her voice.

"Angela," Booth said in a low voice as he frowned. Hearing Angela doing her best at challenging him with sexual innuendos was quite relieving, that much he had to admit, but she shouldn't have to resolve to cheerful banter to hide her emotional wounds. She was trying her utmost to make everything seem normal even though every movement caused her to stifle a grunt or whimper. He felt like kicking and cursing again, if only to let out his pent-up frustration. But he couldn't. He had to focus now. Neither Angela nor Brennan would be helped if he lost his calm. As he maneuvered his hip against the examination table, he cocked his head to look her in the eye.

"What happened, Angela?"

"Are you asking me as a friend or as an FBI-agent?"

"Both."

His answer made her tilt her head to the side and study him wearily. Gone was the flirtatious woman. Just like Brennan whose fuse had been shorter than usual, Angela had tried to put up a façade as if what had happened had no effect on her. But the seriousness of her situation began to dawn on her. Booth could read it in the spark that slowly disappeared from her eyes and the nervous twitching of her fingers. Angela nodded slowly and knowingly as if she had read his mind. She looked away as she sighed and fiddled with the over-sized sweater Hodgins had given her. Her eyes flicked around the room, focusing on everything she came across, before hesitantly settling again on Booth. Hurt threw shadows in her eyes, intensifying the strange light that was burning in their depths. She was lost in her thoughts for a moment, without a doubt reliving the whole incident, before answering.

"I was walking to Hodgins' car when he grabbed me. He..." She paused, glancing at the white cover of the examination table. Hodgins comfortingly squeezed her hand as he shot Booth a warning look. Booth nodded reassuringly at him as if to say he knew his boundaries when it came to questioning victims. Shaken from her staring, Angela quickly shot Hodgins a small smile, ignoring his dark glare, and then continued.

"He hit me...several times. He threw me on the ground, shoved me against the edge of the fountain and he..." She stopped again. Instead of continuing she slowly tugged her hand free from Hodgins' grasp and pulled up her sweater. A trail of blood red scratches---the result of sharp finger nails having been roughly dragged over her smooth skin---trailed down and stopped right above the hem of her jeans. Booth's eyes first widened and were then narrowed making the anger blazing from them almost palpable.

"Did he...?" he began.

"No," Angela retorted. "But I'm pretty sure that's what he was going for. I kicked him, scratched his face, and ran away." Both Booth and Hodgins breathed out audibly.

"What time exactly were you attacked?" was Booth's next question. He tried to sound calm and collected. What had happened had seriously alarmed him, but he didn't want Angela or Hodgins to notice. Hodgins already had his hands full with worrying about Angela. He was solely focused on making her feel better. If Booth wasn't careful, he could antagonize Hodgins in his desire to protect Angela from further harm...or Booth's persistent questioning in this case. Booth clenched his fists. He understood Hodgins better than he let on at the moment, but he couldn't let his feelings show. Seeing Booth seem more worried about Brennan than about Angela could also trigger Hodgins' anger. Angela's eyes suddenly widened.

"It's Brennan, isn't it? Did something bad happen to her?" Booth was taken aback by her awfully precise observation. His eyes darted between Angela's bruised face and Hodgins' creased forehead.

"I guess you could say that..." Booth sighed and pinched his nose bridge between thumb and forefinger. For a few seconds he hesitated, wondering if now was the best time to fill his friends in about John's murder. In the end he decided there would never be a right time so he might as well get it over with. He only hoped Angela would still be focused afterwards. "John Percy was shot this evening."

"John Percy? As in John 'the Boyfriend' Percy?" Angela briefly squeezed her eyes tightly shut and suppressed a moan. Crestfallen she ran her hand through her hair. "How did she take it?"

"You know Bones. Always trying to shut out everything and everyone the second things get too emotional. Though in this case I can't blame her." He pushed himself away from the examination table and began pacing around. "They were on her patio when John was murdered. A sniper took him out."

"They were...She was...?" Angela muttered incoherently and blanched a little as Hodgins' mouth fell open. She shook her head and again ran her hand through her hair. "This can't be good. He gets shot and I am assaulted."

"And you are assaulted," Booth repeated, clasping his hands together behind his back and coming to a rest in front of Angela. "Exactly. It's too much of a coincidence, I believe."

"Care to share what's on your mind?"

Booth frowned and seemed to hesitate before saying, "John was shot before 10 P.M. You were attacked around..."

"Around 11 P.M.," she supplied. "Right after art class."

"So around eleven. That leaves us with a one hour window. Our sniper could have easily driven from D.C. to Rockville." A curse escaped him. "He planned this whole thing." Booth ran a hand over his tired face and drew in a deep breath. "Angela, you're a walking crime scene now. You scratched him so you're likely to have skin particles lodges underneath your nails." The three of them looked down on her neatly manicured nails. "And as much as this pains me, we'll need pictures of your injuries."

Hodgins nodded grimly. "I'll see to it."

To Booth's surprise, Angela was smiling. "Scrape under my nails for skin particles, Booth? Someone's been paying attention to Brennan! Just wait until I tell her. She'll be so proud."

Booth only lifted an eyebrow defiantly. "I'm heading over to the crime scene now. Don't forget about those nails and pictures, alright? And do you think you could attempt drawing your attacker?" The second Hodgins and Angela nodded, Booth turned and stormed off. The night wasn't over for him yet.

---&---

_**Friday November 16 - Town Square Plaza, Rockville - 00:32**_

When Booth got out of the SUV, a series of bright flashes instantly attracted his attention. He had parked in the middle of plaza, next to three police cars. Because it was now an active crime scene, no-one cared about it being a pedestrians only zone. Whipping out his badge and waving it at anyone who tried to stop him, Booth made his way over to where the flashes were coming from. Just as he had suspected a team of CSIs were processing the scene. A number of small yellow signs with numbers on them marked what they considered evidence and needed to be photographed. They were currently working on a pattern of blood drops and smears near the fountain. Booth turned to the man that seemed to be in charge of everything.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth," he said, flashing his badge for the millionth time that night. The other man nodded.

"D.C. police told me you'd be paying us a visit. Evidence we have already collected is over there." He gestured at the open back of a van where a box with evidence bags was standing. Booth thanked him and went over. Frowning deeply, he rummaged through the box checking labels and verifying contents. He came across torn pieces of clothing, cotton swabs used to collect blood, and...

"Damn it!"

His irritation and anger reached boiling point as he took a hold of an evidence bag. Another, more violent curse escaped him as he studied it. This was the crucial piece of evidence he had been looking for. The empty package of baby-bottle nipples he was holding was solid proof that someone was out to harm his friends. And that someone was also sending him a message. They truly had someone dangerous on their tails. Booth sank down on the edge of the back of the van. He gritted his teeth and tried to regain his composure, but his stare never left the evidence in his hands. He was angry, seriously pissed off, but also slightly frightened because he had a feeling the game had only just begun.

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_You see that genre label on top of the page -- Suspense/Romance? Well, we've had quite some suspense now. What would you say if I told you we're going to explore the Romance label a bit?_


	5. The Mute's Bridle

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** And it is Thursday again. How quickly time flies. I'll keep my A/N brief because a) I am absolutely exhausted, and b) I know you want to get to the romance I promised. Just keep in mind that it's written "Niah-style".

Many thanks to **Faux Maven**. As always you've been a great support, an excellent beta, and absolute fun to bounce emails back and forth with. Strappado wouldn't be the same without you.

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**- V -**

**-- ****THE MUTE'S BRIDLE --**

_The title of this chapter is the Mute's Bridle, also known as the Iron Gag. It was used to muffle the screams of the victim during the Spanish Inquisition's 'auto da fe' (meaning 'act of faith') which was the ritual public penance that took place after the Inquisition had decided what punishment the victim would receive. _

_The Mute's Bridle looks a bit like the Branks or Scold's Bridle. It's an iron collar with an oblong box in the front. The box is forced into the mouth while the collar is securely fastened around the victim's neck. There's a small opening in the front allowing air to pass in and out, but stifling all screams of distress at the same time. If the torturer felt like it, he could press a finger against the hole, making breathing for the victim extremely difficult._

_We've skipped a bit forward in time. Two weeks down the line Brennan is feeling highly uncomfortable and is trying to deal with the emotions raging inside of her. But as always she refuses to openly discuss what's bothering her and thus chooses to wear an imaginary Mute's Bridle so no-one can find out about the anguish that's troubling her._

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_**Thursday November 29 - Brennan's hotel room - 06:44**_

Morning crept silent and unstoppable as ever over the city of Washington D.C. It would be a surprisingly bright day, as there were only three or four in the month of November. Sunlight shyly peeked around corners and dabbed the faces of buildings and neatly lined out pavements with golden spots and shimmers revealing owners of newspaper stalls cutting and unpacking bundles of fresh newspapers. Here and there in every street were a handful of people going home to rest from a long, exhausting night of going out and dancing until their feet could no longer carry them. Or some of them were heading to work, filled with resolve to take care of all the work that would surely be dumped on their desks.

On the sixth floor of Park Hyatt Washington on 24 and M Streets, in a spacious 'Park Deluxe' room, Brennan watched morning light pour through the open slits of the wooden blinds in front of the bedroom window. She lay on the right side of the bed, closest to the window and right next to a three-tiered, open bookshelf. A modern lamp, a small piece of art, an alarm clock, and a set of books had been strategically placed on the shelves to give it a sophisticated look. The same decorating style had been used in the entire suite. Ornaments were put at the most random places, the walls were painted in rich colors, and comfortable and expensive seemed inadequate as descriptions of the hotel room's furniture.

Despite there being a door to separate the suite's bedroom from the main living area, Brennan had no trouble visualizing how the same morning sun spilled through the living room's window and washed over the very large couch, oversized work desk, and splendid looking flat screen television. She normally wasn't prone to imagining such scenes, but she needed something pointless to concentrate on in order to keep her from thinking about John. It was no use. Simple visualization exercises couldn't stop the thoughts of John toppling through her head.

His funeral was today. First there would be a memorial service at the church; afterwards close friends and relatives would gather at the cemetery to see the casket being lowered into the cold ground. Brennan inwardly cringed. Though she wasn't religious, John's body being put to rest affected her. It was over; John was dead. She would never see his face nor would touch his warm, inviting skin again. She couldn't bring him back and was having a hard time dealing with that fact. Though John had never gotten close enough to leave an indelible impression on her, Brennan found herself grieving over his untimely death. He had been sharing her bed, not her heart, but somewhere along the way she had become used to his presence. Enough to notice the emptiness he left behind.

John's family obviously knew about the superficial relationship Brennan had had with him because she hadn't received an invitation to join them in the mourning over John's loss. But that didn't stop her from going to the funeral. It didn't matter that the resentment his family felt on her behalf had been nearly palpable, even over the phone. The only proper reason to go to the burial service Brennan was willing to admit to herself was the unlucky fact that John had been shot at her apartment, in her presence. All the other reasons --the striking feeling of loss, a need to express her sorrow, and the guilt weighing down heavily on her shoulders weren't relevant. She pretended attending John's funeral seemed like the only logical thing to do. In a time of confusion and emotional struggle Brennan desperately wanted to cling to whatever little rationality she could get her hands on. Facing the dark spiral of inner turmoil wasn't something she was ready for.

It had been two weeks now. Two weeks in which nothing unusual had happened. On some days it nearly seemed like everything was completely normal. But then Brennan would see Angela's slowly fading bruises or careful movements and everything would come back to her, including her resolve to find whoever had done her best friend such harm. Every hour Brennan put into both cases and every lead she mercilessly pursued, she did it all for Angela's and John's sake. Though he had spent three days a week for three months in her company and she had become used to him, John was now as dead as a man could be. He deserved to have his killer found. Angela was still alive and kicking, but she deserved justice just as much.

But finding justice appeared harder than Brennan had initially thought. Evidence and law enforcement seemed to work against her. The empty apartment across the street had been a perfect hide-out for a sniper, but not a single fingerprint had been found. The only trace the sniper had left was an SV-99 sniper rifle and a couple of smudgy foot prints in the living room, probably from when he left the patio to place the rifle on the coffee table. Unfortunately, thanks to excruciatingly slow police procedure, none of the evidence had yet been properly examined. What made matters worse was that no-one, not one single witness, had noticed an unfamiliar man enter or leave the building. All they had now were smudged shoe prints, an urban sniper rifle with the serial number filed off, and no key witnesses who could describe the killer.

Angela's case was looking even worse. The only concrete things they had to go on were scrapings from under Angela's nails with DNA traces they had yet to match to another sample, and a very abstract drawing of the man Angela claimed to be her attacker. Sadly enough the drawing wasn't of much use. During the attack Angela's vision had been obscured by blood leaking from a deep cut in her forehead; ultimately she couldn't really see his face. Of course, the little box Booth had found at the scene was a crucial piece of evidence that had made it possible for them to link the two cases, but in the end it was pretty much useless as well. Because the killer used a standard baby nipple, retracing the package to where it was purchased wouldn't be of any importance. And the killer had made sure to wipe the package clean of all fingerprints. He had been that careful unfortunately.

All in all, both cases were looking pretty depressing. Though Brennan and her team hadn't officially been assigned to work on this with Booth, they did all they could to help. What little progress they made angered Hodgins while Brennan appeared to remain untouched by it all. Denying how much the stabbing memories affected her had become a habit. She did what she always did; she turned her emotions inwards and appeared to study the facts from the outside. Truth was, that besides working relentlessly until she could no more, she hurt every single day. Not a morning passed without waking up in cold sweat, and not a night began without remembering the pop of the gun followed by the lifeless thump as John's body crashed to the floor. Pulling up a façade of indifference and cold concentration was easy and necessary for her survival. If she didn't distance herself from the world around her, she might accept the silent comfort of Booth's presence and break down in front of him...or worse, in his arms.

Brennan rolled onto her side and thoughtfully regarded the other side of the bed, empty and inviting at the same time, when her partner came to mind. In the two weeks that had passed since the shooting, Booth had insisted on staying close to her just like Hodgins never let Angela out of his sight. To Brennan it seemed a repeat of the Cugini-Hollings case. During the day, whenever she turned around, she saw Booth either sitting in a chair or leaning against a wall or even pretending to have an animated discussion with Zach, always in the neighborhood in case something went wrong. She was only alone at night.

As time progressed, Brennan began to find these precautions more and more irritating and frightening. Nothing happened; no-one tried to kill her. An exotic mix of guilt, longing for comfort, and an irrational fear that she could be next on the sniper's list was raging inside of her. Dealing with it was tiring, but she refused to make Booth or anyone else party to her inner turmoil. Ignorant of her feelings, Booth was only filled with concern. His need to protect had grown out of proportion. Brennan could clearly see he was constantly preoccupied with their tormentor. Whoever was toying with them like a cat with a dead bird, was a very dangerous man. A reckless murderer would've struck again as soon as he was offered a decent opportunity, but the man hunting them had just disappeared---gone up in smoke, vanished from the face of the earth. They couldn't find him or any clues as to who he was. He had planned the whole thing out extremely carefully and that was what worried Booth.

She sighed, rolled onto her other side, and eventually threw back the covers. Staying in bed until her alarm clock announced it was 07:00 in the morning was not an option when thoughts, memories, and assumptions were swirling in her mind. She got up and made her way to the bathroom. There she quickly shed her clothes, ignoring the goose bumps created by suddenly leaving the warmth of her bed, before getting in the shower. Once warm water slipped down her body in steady streams and steam enveloped her like a second skin, Brennan felt the tension being eased from her muscles. She could almost forget Booth had insisted on the FBI placing her in a special hotel where they could watch her.

A small, satisfied smile played over her face as she remembered how she had refused Booth's offer and had personally paid for a place to stay at as long as her apartment was an active crime scene. Booth hadn't like it, but had expected such a gesture from her side and had gone effortlessly along with it. The only concession Brennan had to make was giving Booth a spare key and the promise she'd call him first before anyone else should something go wrong. The fact that she had called local police instead of him hadn't gone down well with her partner. If Brennan didn't know any better, she could have sworn her action had wounded more than Booth's pride.

Brennan had barely wrapped a towel around her body when she picked up the distinctive sound of shoes on the hotel suite's parquet living room floor. Immediately she froze. There was someone in her room well before 07:30 in the morning. This could only mean Booth had been right to worry. The sniper had not forgotten about her. An uncontrollable fear came over her. John's startled grunt and the sound of his corpse hitting the floor resounded loudly in her ears as she willed herself to calm down. Panicking and letting her disturbing memories get to her wouldn't help her if she stood face to face with her attacker.

Lips pinched to a determined thin line and her bath towel tucked firmly around her body, Brennan silently opened the door and tiptoed into her bedroom. Because of the layout, bed- and bathroom were adjacent and separate from the living room. Whoever was snooping around couldn't see her unless he decided to peek through the small gap the open bedroom door provided. Brennan's skimpy attire didn't bother her in the least; changing into something else would take time -- something she didn't have with an intruder in the vicinity. In her bedroom, she grabbed the bat she had once used to smash her television into pieces when one of her ex-boyfriends had come to collect it unexpectedly. When she had left her apartment, she had taken it with her for some unknown reason. Now Brennan knew why. Wielding it around would pose no problem; it would be a useful weapon.

As swiftly as possible she moved to stand next to the door leading to the living room. Because she was barefooted, she was able to cross the room without making any more noise than the soft pat of feet on rug. Her silence contrasted the amount of noise the burglar made. He walked around undisturbed, as if he owned the place. Brennan waited patiently with her back against the wall until he came close enough to be within reach of her weapon. Her grip on her baseball bat tightened. She breathed in and out steadily, calmly collecting enough nerve to jump out of hiding and beat him senseless.

The moment his footsteps sounded impossibly near, Brennan briefly closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, violently shoved the door open with her foot, and jumped around the corner, her bat held up at waist height. As soon as she had jumped out of hiding, Brennan realized she had made two mistakes. The first, and by far the worse mistake, was that she had angled her bat in such a way that she could seriously damage a person's spine if she hit hard enough and that was exactly what she had originally intended on doing. The second mistake was that she had acted irrationally. Instead of logically enumerating the people who could be in her room at this hour, she had boldly jumped out with a weapon at the ready. Fortunately Brennan had recognized the back she had planned to strike and stopped in time. The clothes clinging to his frame betrayed the shape of a lower back she had studied numerous times and had occasionally fantasized about touching. How tempting it had sometimes been to let her fingers wander over his back in an excuse to examine his spine for irregularities.

There was no doubt to whom this back belonged, but before she could properly react, he swung around and effectively pinned her to the wall with one arm across her neck, close to her throat. A gun aimed precisely at the center of her forehead was in his other hand. Brennan cringed when he grunted. She avoided blinking as he stared at her. Fully aware of her error, she let the hand clutching the bat hang down limply beside her side. Seeing it still raised in the air would only irritate him more. Not that attempting to beat him to a pulp would put him in a good mood anyway...Not that either of them was paying attention to her bat at the moment. Tingles frolicking down her spine and a sudden ache to run her finger up his arm, over his elbow, and finally circle his shoulder confused her momentarily. In a flash of irrationality, Brennan wondered how she had ever found satisfaction in John's arms when Booth could evoke such feelings in her by simply manhandling her as if she was a dangerous criminal. Just when Brennan was considering how to work her way out of this lustful predicament, Booth backed away as though stung by a bee.

"Bones, damn it!" Booth cursed as he blinked before holstering his gun. "What the hell is up with the bat?"

Brennan tilted her chin up defiantly. Though she knew the mistake was entirely hers, she had a good enough reason to attack him. How else was she supposed to react to someone breaking into her apartment early in the morning? "I thought you were a burglar." She lifted the heavy piece of wood and poked it at him. "What are you doing here, Booth? I specifically told you to stay away. I'm going to John's funeral alone."

"And I said no," Booth countered.

He gritted his teeth as he unconsciously rubbed the parts of his wrist where Brennan had touched him. Next his hand went to his lower back. Good thing she had recognized him before she had had a chance to swing at him. Booth imperceptibly shook his head. One of these days he was going to strip her and her surroundings of everything that could serve as a weapon, starting with that bat. He should've known the woman couldn't be trusted with it, nor with any other weapon. Brennan possessed an unhealthy talent for weapons, be it a bat, a gun or simply her hands and feet. He valued her ability to protect herself, but he would have to keep an eye on her. Otherwise she'd end up shooting him one day. He shook his head again and concentrated on frowning and sounding dominant and irritated.

"There is no way in hell that I'm allowing you to go alone. The killer is still out there."

"You're not _allowing_ me?" Brennan exclaimed outraged.

"You heard me."

They stared at each other, both determined not to be the first to turn away. Over the course of the last fifteen days they had regularly had this argument. Brennan's determined yet distanced attitude was an act Booth could not comprehend. They had a killer on their tails and she didn't seem to be seriously bothered by that. She ignored all safety precautions and she constantly challenged him -- ordering him to back down -- which he refused to do time and time again. If something happened to her, God forbid, he would never forgive himself. She was dearer to him than any woman had ever been. If she ever died, part of him would die.

As Booth stared at her, it became crystal clear to him that Brennan understood perfectly why he was being this protective of her. The way and number of times she tried to shove him aside contradicted his realization, but Booth now saw it was all a part of her defense mechanism. The killer had gotten to Brennan and she didn't want Booth to see her weakness. Booth smiled ruefully in silent mockery. He was doing the exact same thing as his partner. Only it was Brennan who had gotten to him and she was his weakness. He curtly shook his head to rid his mind of thoughts of exactly what it was he felt for Brennan. This was neither the time nor the place to sort through those feelings. His goal was to get her to agree to let him accompany her to her boyfriend's funeral. John's family hadn't asked her to come, but Brennan insisted on going anyway to pay him her last respects.

Booth was all for respecting the dead, but not when his partner's life was on the line. John's life had been taken in a split second, only because a mad man had thought of it as fit. He could send Brennan to another world just as easily. If Booth could, as much as possible, prevent her from going to unknown places where he couldn't properly protect her, then he'd happily go through a hundred heated discussions. It wasn't like he didn't enjoy them...especially not when the anger was blazing from her eyes like it was now. Was she even aware of how striking she looked when she sent those pointed glares his way? Booth cleared his throat to mask how his breath hitched when he took in her hair dripping with water from the shower he had heard running when he had entered her hotel suite.

"I am coming with you. Discussion closed," he snapped, a bit harsher than necessary because of his confusion about how fast she could turn his anger into lust. He had to get away from her right now, before he started fantasizing about how he'd peel off her clothes -- was a bath towel even considered a piece of clothing? -- and pull her longs legs around his waist. He shoved his mental images aside and quietly wished Samantha was still around, if only so he could release the sizzling tension Brennan caused.

"Stop testing my patience, Bones," he added. "Get dressed..._now_."

Brennan glared at him, jabbed her bat at him again, and opened her mouth to speak, but in the end thought better of it.

"Fine," she snapped back at him.

Then she turned on her heel and stormed off, unaware of the effect her towel which came only to mid-thigh was having on her partner. Booth followed her with his gaze until the door of the bathroom slammed shut. He ran a hand through his hair and over his tired eyes. Their arguments had been confusing before the incident, but now they were downright brain twisters. He was growing tired of the palette of emotions Brennan painted for him. One of these days he'd either strangle her or kiss her. Whatever he chose, it would be fiercely passionate.

* * *

_Now what did I tell you...It's probably not what you expected, hmm?_


	6. Shunnen

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I am going to be fair with you here. Because I will be way, way too busy next Thursday, I have decided to skip a week. So I suggest you savor this chapter because the next update will be on _**January 3rd**_.

Some chapters are a real pain in the ass while others are written and corrected effortlessly. This one belongs to the latter category. **Faux Maven**, it was a pleasure quickly going over this part with you and sliding in some last minute lines. You convinced me this chapter wasn't total crap when I honestly believed there was something wrong with it. Thanks a million for the support.

* * *

**- VI -**

**-- SHUNNEN --**

_'Shunnen' is the Middle English form of the verb 'to shun'. __Meanings are (1) to keep away from, to avoid, to eschew, to evade, and (2) to slight deliberately, to spurn. In this chapter Brennan insists on going to John's funeral (the opposite of the first meaning of 'shunnen') but is given the cold shoulder by John's family (that would be the second meaning of the verb). I opted for a moral and mental torture method because in spite of there being a lot of physical ways to hurt someone, we often forget that a person can also be broken mentally and that is one of Madman's goals._

* * *

_**Thursday November 29**__** - Booth's car, on the way to the cemetery - 08:13**_

Booth's fingers ran impatiently over the steering wheel like a passionate piano player fondles the keys of his beloved instrument. Whereas he would usually be more focused on Brennan than on the road, he now resolved to tightly grip the wheel one moment and torture it the next while staring straight ahead of him. Something or someone was keeping him from bickering with her in his usual vain attempt to win the argument. Brennan concluded from this that Booth had to be feeling either very anxious or very, very misunderstood. Why, she could only acknowledge in her head. The last thing Brennan needed was a spoken reminder of the lunatic still running free somewhere out there and of the fear that had gripped her when she had mistaken Booth for a burglar.

An uncomfortable feeling settled in Brennan's stomach and she resisted the sudden temptation of looking over her shoulder to see what cars were behind them. Instead, she concentrated on the scenery whizzing by as they sped down the street. It was like this every time thoughts of their stalker crossed her mind. She had to restrain her thought process and stop herself before her mind got too carried away. The only difference between all those other times when she was filled with dread and worry about whoever was hunting them and now, was that the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Plus, she had the strangest sensation that someone -- apart from Booth -- was intensely watching her. Brennan pursed her lips, choosing to ignore all signs. It was the end of November. The cold caused the strange bodily sensations she was experiencing. A stranger supposedly stalking her had nothing to do with a few hairs standing on end or the unpleasant feeling of twitching muscles. Everything could be traced back to the cold weather, a lack of sleep, and the intense, scrutinizing stare Booth subjected her to.

But a part of Brennan objected to her theories. She usually didn't feel this uncomfortable whenever she was the center of Booth's attention. Normally Brennan was slightly nervous, but she felt appreciated, respected and as hard as it was to admit, even just mentally, she felt cherished and liked...loved even, maybe. But only in a very partner-like way. Brennan drew in a deep breath and sat up straight. She had to stick to her rational explanations or else she would go down a path she wasn't ready to explore yet. So instead of cowering, she reasoned that no one could be following them because Booth would have noticed. He was good at spotting those things. Good enough to earn him her trust.

But Brennan's discomfort increased when she caught Booth's attitude changing. A worried frown creased his forehead and he began to regularly check his rearview mirror. Questioningly lifting an eyebrow, Brennan observed his antics. Booth shot her a quick look, probably to see if she was on to him, and stilled as soon as he met her eye. But the damage was already done. Brennan no longer feigned an interest in the buildings, streets, and people flying by as they drove. Booth and his nervous frown-and-check routine confirmed the ominous 'gut feelings' she had been experiencing ever since they had gotten into the SUV. Of course, stubborn as she was, she refused to go along with any suspicion until she had concrete evidence. But now Booth had provided her enough proof that she should worry. Brennan suppressed the urge to gulp and chose instead to address Booth.

"Stop it, Booth. No one is following us." She sounded determined, dismissing any counterarguments in advance. Booth kept quiet. In response, Brennan pulled her lips into a thin line. She curtly pronounced every word as she repeated, "_No one_ is following us. You're imagining things."

"Am I?" Booth slowed down a bit to throw a penetrating look at his partner. Brennan bluntly stared back.

"Yes, you are. No one is following us."

"That's the third time you've said that." He turned his attention back to the road again and mumbled, "Good luck with convincing yourself."

"He won't be there." Confidence was what she wanted to display, but she detected a minor hint of stress in her voice. As much as she tried to focus and pretend she was fine, the spider cracks in her defense kept multiplying, widening and stretching. If she wasn't careful, she would be defenseless in the upcoming days. The thought of being vulnerable and completely exposed was frightening. Everyone could harm her then -- especially the killer who was after them.

"He will." Booth sounded as confident as Brennan wanted to feel. "He went to a lot of trouble to shoot John and attack Angela afterwards. He left me...us...enough clues to tie the two cases together. He's playing with us. He'll be there." He paused. "So I'm going to be there as well."

Brennan thought of it as wise to only partially object. The unsettling feeling that was still roaming on the inside made her more careful than normal. They weren't dealing with an ordinary murderer so perhaps it was best to behave a bit irrationally and give in to Booth...but only part way. "In the car," she stated. "You'll be there...in the car."

"No, I won't. I'm coming with you, Bones."

"No, you're not." Brennan silently chided herself for sounding just a tad too desperate to her own ears. Booth, however, didn't seem to pay a lot of attention to her tone because he furiously clenched his jaw muscles.

He tore his eyes from the road to give her a stern stare. In a low voice he spoke, "For the millionth time, you don't have any say in this. You owe me for nearly crippling me with that bat."

"You nearly shot me," Brennan countered flatly.

As if on cue, the bits and pieces of the nightmares that kept popping into her head disappeared and were replaced by some far more pleasant scenes. Namely of how Booth had pinned her to the wall and had waited just a moment too long before withdrawing. The friction of skin on skin still confused her. They had touched before, during those 'guy hugs' for example, but somehow those had been different. Was it the lack of clothing that had made the feel of his hands on her body urgent and needy? And what about that split second when she had caught a glimpse of primal lust flashing across his face?

In a moment of total honesty, as she had dressed in the bedroom, she had admitted to herself that Booth hadn't been the only one suppressing his urges. In the course of the past six months, there had been more sparks than ever. But they had to be ignored. Nothing good could come out of a possible relationship with Booth. They would jeopardize their careers and partnership. Brennan blinked upon suddenly realizing she had never considered what she and Booth had as friendship. They were partners, not just friends. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She could practically see Angela sitting in the back of the car, suggestively waggling her eyebrows and subtly mentioning that the word 'partner' carried so much significance.

"We've been over this, Bones. You're not going alone. Which is why you're in_ my_ car." To underline the last two words, he pointed at her, then downwards when he said 'my', and then casually rested his wrist on the steering wheel. Booth's mind appeared not to be stuck on what had happened in the hotel room earlier. Brennan imperceptibly rolled her shoulders as if to shrug her thoughts off.

"You're only driving me. I'm not letting you go to John's funeral. You're _not_ invited," she replied as she crossed her arms. Upon receiving a pointed look from Booth, she narrowed her eyes. He was deliberately reminding her of her lack of invitation. "It's different for me. You didn't sleep with John for three months."

"Thank God," Booth muttered, eyeing her from the side. "And of course I'm not 'invited'. You don't receive invitations for funerals like you do for parties. _Anyone_ can go to a cemetery and attend a funeral. _Anyone_ could be there, including and especially our killer." He breathed out audibly, noting how uninterested and unfazed Brennan was by his explanation. Annoyed, he gestured at her. "Fine, let's get back to John then. Why don't you tell me why you liked him so much?"

Brennan seemed to ponder his question for a few short moments. "He was decent, had no ambition to overpower me, had no urge to kill, and had no intention of leaving. That's why I liked him."

With a hint of amusement Booth noted Brennan had enumerated all of the qualities her former boyfriends hadn't had. Pangs of jealousy speared his insides when it dawned on him that the chance of Brennan intending on going for 'the real thing' with John had been more than probable. His sudden insight made him take a deep breath and momentarily silenced him. No matter how Brennan would argue if he shared his thoughts with her, fact remained that she had attracted a man who she presumed to be better than the failures she had dated in the past. She had subconsciously been looking for someone to settle down with. Without a doubt in a non-traditional way, but still long-term in every sense of the word.

"You're forgetting his dashing good looks," Booth eventually mumbled, trying to sound sarcastic, but failing. "Come on, a penny for your thoughts."

Brennan stared blankly ahead of her. "Why do you care about John's appearance? I should have never mentioned I consider you as good breeding stock. You don't have to compete with him."

Booth quirked an eyebrow, preferring to ignore her comment. "Sidestepping the question there, Bones." He glanced at her. "You do know you'll have to open up and talk to me one day, right?"

"Don't go Gordon Gordon or Dr. Sweets on me, Booth," Brennan warned.

"I'm just saying..." He shrugged. "If you think past their 'wicked psychological enigmatic ways', those guys may have had a point. Talking could help you...both of us."

For a moment Brennan stared at him as though attempting to bore a hole through his forehead with her piercing looks. "I'm not letting you attend John's funeral."

"What? That's not what I-" He seemed flabbergasted.

"Save it, Booth," she cut him off. "This is neither the time nor the place to root around in my head in an attempt to make me discuss my feelings."

Gritting his teeth, Booth returned, "You're rationalizing everything to get me to believe you're doing just fine."

"I_ am_ fine."

Booth narrowed his eyes. "You're scared."

"I am not scared. I refuse to be."

"Really? You sure of that? Because, honestly, nothing says 'I'm scared' more than swinging a bat at your partner's head."

"I was aiming for your back and I thought you were an intruder."

"Proves my point even more." Booth glanced at Brennan. He was briefly taken aback when he caught the dramatic change in her appearance. Minutes ago she had stubbornly been staring out of the window. Now she was feverishly switching between looking straight ahead with widened eyes and restlessly glancing at the side-mirror. "You're scared, Bones. You're terrified he's coming after you. At least have the guts to admit it." His grumpily uttered words turned Brennan rigid. All Booth wanted to do was reach out and take Brennan's cold, clammy hand in his, but he had excluded that option by ruthlessly attempting to bully Brennan into admitting her fear. There was no turning back now. He'd have to keep pressing her buttons and hope for the best.

"I'm not-" she started.

"Give it a rest, will you, Bones? Don't think I haven't noticed the number of times you've checked every mirror or how you're exhausting yourself looking for evidence. I'm just as determined as you are to find out whoever is after us. But if we want to win, we'll have to trust each other and we'll have to talk...sort everything out, you know."

Brennan's shoulders slumped slightly. The fierceness of her earlier arguments disappeared, leaving only a hint of a strong and independent Brennan behind. Her fragility matched her voice as she quietly spoke, "You know I trust you."

Because Brennan backed down, Booth relaxed too. "Then let's be honest here. Why didn't you call me?" For the first time during their conversation, they directly looked at each other without glaring. Booth's open gaze with not a single glint of mockery or sarcasm underlined the careful posing of his question.

Brennan sighed, irritated. Just as quickly as she had shed her distant attitude, it was back. Only now she looked rather weary than dominant. "Not now, Booth. You and your ego will have to wait." She paused, then swiftly continued, "Take a left at the next intersection. The cemetery is down the road."

"We'll discuss this again, Bones. I'm not letting this slide so easily."

"Like you ever would," Brennan mumbled.

---&---

Brennan felt like running away. She was far from being a cowardly woman, but the deep feeling of sadness added to the penetrating stares she received from the people around her were enough to make her consider returning to the SUV. Though she hated to admit it, she had to recognize that attending John's funeral was a mistake. His family hadn't asked for her presence because they blamed her for his death. If he hadn't met her, hadn't been at her apartment, he might still be alive. Since they lacked the man who was really responsible for pulling the trigger, they blamed Brennan instead. She was aware of all of this and tried to ignore it, but it still stung. John's family was hurting and they were simply looking for a scapegoat to curse.

As Brennan stood to the side, far away from the family, she watched some of them say a few words as they laid a white rose on John's casket before it was lowered into the ground. She wondered what she would say about John if she had been the one there, in front of his coffin, praising his good qualities. She had known him for about three months. In total they had met thirty times. Had she really known him outside the bedroom? Shaking her head and taking a step back, Brennan concluded that she had come to John's funeral because she felt guilty. Her relationships regularly failed, but this was the first one that had ended with murder. John's family was right. He had been an innocent bystander, in the line of fire only because he had been with her. She felt sad because another life had violently been taken, not because it happened to be her lover's life.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," Booth mumbled. Brennan glanced sideways at him. Despite their disagreement, Booth had calmly followed her into the church and was now standing next to her. His shoulder subtly pressed against hers as if to remind her that she wasn't alone. She breathed out audibly and returned to staring at John's coffin. Maybe she was struggling with Booth's overly protective nature or the exact meaning of their rather close encounter at the hotel, but truth was she was glad that he had come along. If someone could keep her grounded, it was Booth.

Without taking her eyes off John's family, Brennan discretely nudged her partner. Booth perfectly understood her intentions. He didn't say a word as he turned and placed a warm hand on her hip to guide her in the direction of the SUV. After a few steps he guiltily withdrew it and instead shoved his hands into the pockets of his long winter coat. Brennan pretended not to notice and continued to walk.

As she made her way past dozens of headstones the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, exactly like when they had been driving to the cemetery. Thinking it was the glares John's family sent after her, Brennan turned expecting to find them all looking at her. But they weren't. They all had their eyes fixed on the casket.

Frowning, Brennan moved closer to Booth until their arms were brushing. "Booth..."

He nodded and said the words that made Brennan turn cold. "I know. Someone's watching us."

* * *

_And on that "cheerful" note I am going to run like hell before you all remember I have taught you a thing or two about torture and decide to use that knowledge against me. See you all in two weeks!_


	7. The Thief Catcher

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Well, I hope everyone had a more than excellent Christmas. Also my best wishes for 2008. It's nice to be back. Well, I certainly hope I am back though I cannot guarantee anything because of this bloody insomnia that keeps chasing me!

Sincere thanks to everyone who reviewed the last two chapters. I am horribly behind on my review replies; no need to point that out. But do not despair, I will get to them before Sunday!

More thanks to **Faux Maven**. It seems like an eternity ago we went over this chapter, but your compliment will always stay with me. As will your help. I cannot stress enough how kind it was of you to lend me a hand when I didn't know what to do.

Before we begin, just one last, small note -- Does everyone remember where we were? Without scrolling back to the last chapter, please. lol Yes, that's right. We were attending a funeral together with Booth and Brennan and our favourite soon-to-be-couple realized they were being followed.

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**- VI****I -**

**-- THE THIEF CATCHER --**

_The Thief Catcher is a torture__ device mostly used for transporting prisoners. It looks like a ring of spikes (similar to the Skull Splitter) but it has a sort of V-opening in the front with a spring. There is a pole attached to the ring, opposite the V-opening. When a prisoner was to be transported, his arm, leg or neck would be inserted through the V-opening, past the spring, and right in the middle of the spiked circle. The torturer could push and pull the pole attached to the ring as much as he wished, forcing the victim's limb or neck to be impaled._

_This chapter is about keeping distance. Just like the torturers used the Thief Catcher to keep prisoners on a safe distance without allowing them to run away, Madman is doing the exact same thing with Booth and Brennan. He stays close without ever getting too close, but makes sure they don't forget about him._

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_**Thursday November 29 - In front of the Jeffersonian - 18:34**_

An almost wicked smile was what he had been sporting the entire day. He was making her nervous even though she couldn't see him. He loved every second of this sweet torture. How she continuously threw suspicious glances over her shoulder, how she stayed closer than usual to that irritating FBI-agent, how for once she didn't argue with the bastard about him following her around...All indicators that he was slowly getting to her. His smile widened as he leaned back in his seat. From where he had parked his car, he could easily keep an eye on the exit of the Jeffersonian. The minute she stepped through those doors, he'd notice. Of course she would be escorted by that infuriating man, but he could tolerate him...for now. Brennan could smile at her partner as many times as she wanted to. She could make sure to have him near for as long as she liked. For all he cared, she could even lure the agent into her bedroom because in the end it wouldn't matter. He would take him away from her no matter what.

Sure, that man had rescued her from a perfect death while ruining his carefully constructed plans. Sure, he was allowed to touch Brennan in ways he could only dream about. But still, in the end he would suffer. He would personally see to it. But not just yet. First he had to see to other matters. Torturing the FBI-agent would be his masterpiece and as with all masterpieces, the preparation was time consuming. So all he could do right now was watch those two circle around each other, tolerating and attracting the other one's attention, like binary stars orbiting around their center of mass -- the evidence -- day after day. And when they weren't out solving cases, they bickered endlessly. Or they stared at each other all gooey-eyed over a piece of pie they regularly ate in a diner on a street corner. His stomach actually churned at the thought of catching the umpteenth secret glance they stole from each other. If he had been in the dating business, he would have nominated them as the "Couple in Denial" of the week. _No, make that the year_, he wryly thought. It sickened him how much they seemed to like each other. He truly couldn't understand why people liked touching and hugging each other when brute force was so much more attractive.

Brennan was inside now, in her comfortable, familiar lab, probably turning round and round inside that pretty little head of hers all of the clues they thought they had collected about him. It had to be driving her crazy not know who was behind the attacks, who was out to ruin her life. He bet she hardly slept at night. He chuckled devilishly. Disturbing the good doctor's rest was a welcome and entertaining side effect of his vengeful scheme. Pretty soon she'd wander around like a ghost with bloodshot eyes and dull skin. Perhaps then that stupid ass of a partner would abandon her. A sudden surge of anger and disgust engulfed him. Who did he think he was anyway, that smart-ass sniper?

Grimacing sourly, he tilted his head from side to side, snapping and cracking his neck. He could still hear her whisper the agent's name as he and Brennan had heard him shuffle around above their heads while they had been hidden from view in the basement. Relief and conviction had sounded loud and clear in her barely audible sigh. Her solid belief that he would find her hadn't wavered during her imprisonment. For that he had admired as well as despised her. How was it possible for her to be convinced that man would come to her rescue? She had been one second away from being molested, abused, torn to shreds mentally and yet she had held her head up high. Fearless and longingly Brennan had whispered his name.

_Booth...__Booth the Bastard, _he thought wryly. Though he rather liked his nickname for the agent, he was careful pronouncing it only in his mind. To him it meant nothing but anger and disgust. Even as he repeated the name silently, it made him feel like spitting his disgust out on the ground. Thanks to Booth, all of his plans had been ruined. How the bastard has located his hide-out, he didn't even know. How bad his timing was, that he did know. Right before Brennan had defied him, he had lightly traced the strong line of her jaw with his fingertips. His touch had been soft, delicate, light as a feather right before it had turned rigid and cold, just like his smile. It was all he had wanted her to see. The hood he had been wearing had obscured everything from view except his frigid smile and soulless eyes.

"So pretty," he had hoarsely murmured. "Oh so pretty..." His eyes had flickered dangerously. "Too pretty," he had growled.

A blow, hard and unforgiving, had come out of nowhere. Her head had snapped upwards. Her lip had split as if he had torn it in two like a piece of paper. A drop of blood had welled up and he had felt a dying need to lick it up before shoving his tongue down her throat. He had been planning on finally giving in to his desires. Ripping her clothes off, forcing her body to bend against the rough basement wall, and nestling himself in her tightness had almost become reality. He had had it all in the palm of his hand and just like that, as elusive as a shuddering breath, she had uttered his name -- Booth...His entire plan had been shattered that instant...but not his desire. The need to push her up against a wall and bury himself in her as she screamed out in agony still coursed through his veins. It agitated him and fed his aching loins at night. It kept him on his toes and weakened his attention when he lost himself in visualizing what he'd do with her. If he ever wanted to fulfill his animalistic wanting, he'd have to be patient and eliminate them one by one.

Disgusted, he emptied the cup of coffee he had bought earlier onto the sidewalk. Brennan was his. There should be no hesitating. He should be able to grab her whenever he liked. She was his, entirely his. If only the entire world, including Brennan, could realize that. Booth -- a new wave of nausea hit him as a bitter taste filled his mouth upon thinking about the agent -- understood this need, how unorthodox it was. He crumpled his empty cup and threw it out of the window upon remembering the searing look Booth had sent Brennan as they had walked out of the hotel that morning. A world of longing had been in that intense stare -- a longing he understood far too well. He grimaced upon realizing there was a fundamental difference as well as a similarity between him and the FBI-agent. They both desired Brennan with every fiber of their being, but -- and this was what set them apart -- Brennan wasn't Booth's. Unlike the Bastard, he had every right to take her whenever he pleased. Booth was only an insignificant dot in the universe that happened to have the good fortune to be labeled as her partner.

Brennan was his. He had chained her to a wall to keep her near because he had wanted to have her close, because he wanted everyone to see she belonged to him. And yet those chains hadn't stopped that infuriating bastard from invading his home and whisking her away. Didn't the term "Private Property" mean anything these days? He sadly shook his head. A moment later his anger flared up again as he locked onto his targets. Through the entrance sliding doors of the Jeffersonian they came -- the pair he had been tailing all day. They both seemed tense. Brennan was focused on the black SUV parked in the far left corner of the parking lot whereas Booth kept a close eye on their surroundings. Could they see him? Just to be on the safe side, he slid down an inch or two in his seat. As much as he wanted to jump out of the car to strangle Booth and drag Brennan off by her hair, he had to restrain himself and bide his time. The right moment would present itself or he would create it soon enough.

He watched them get into the car and drive away without so much as giving him the slightest glance. With relief washing over him, he sat up straight again. They hadn't spotted him. His plan was still safe. After he had waited half a minute, he turned the ignition key and drove off in the direction the partners had gone. He could drive out of the parking lot without any problems thanks to the entrance badge he had managed to obtain. It had taken weeks before he had seen a chance to snatch it away from the parking lot guard's desk. Ever since some unknown nutcase had attacked the good doctor and one of her colleagues in the parking complex, security had become more stringent. They went through a lot of trouble to protect this place properly. Only they hadn't counted on a foolhardy millionaire -- one of the Jeffersonian benefactors -- turning on them. The new parking lot guard had been too easy to bribe. It was amusing how fast people turned deaf and blind if you waved a bundle of hundred dollar bills in front of them.

He whistled a relaxed tune as he tracked Booth and Brennan in the dense six o'clock traffic. Months in a row he had loyally surveyed the lab. He had seen her get in and out of her car, her mind always filled with bones and other scientific nonsense. He had seen her rush around the lab, spewing facts into a small voice recorder or tapping up smart reports in her office. He considered it fate -- a sure sign -- that she had accepted her job and he had been approached as benefactor on the exact same day. Long before Booth had come along, he had been in her life. His days had merely consisted of waiting for the lab to ask for his annual check, following up on Brennan's progress, and poring over copies of security tapes provided by the greedy guard. Witnessing her arrival in the morning and heading home late at night had been his favorite moments caught on tape. How she got in and out of her car had been a pleasure to look at.

Even now, after more than half a year without his precious tapes because he had contented himself with "watching the real stuff", his mouth still turned dry at the memory. She was his, undoubtedly. She belonged to him. His queen, simply and only his...His grip on the steering wheel tightened. Shaking his head to rid it of his vulgar thoughts, he forced his attention on the SUV driving three cars in front of him. If he wanted his plan to succeed, he'd have to track them to check if they'd change their habits now that danger was lurking around the corner.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of the hotel. To avoid raising suspicion, he drove on, turned the corner, and parked in the first available spot he saw. As fast as he could, but not too fast because he didn't want to attract anyone's unhealthy interest, he rounded the corner again and walked briskly along the sidewalk until he caught sight of a perfect hide-out. A furtive glance at the cars parked along the curb told him he was alone. Silently he retreated until he was flat against the brick front of the building next to the hotel. Shadows swallowed him gladly making it impossible for anyone to see him. His hands disappeared in the pockets of his coat as he peered skywards, at the light streaming out of several hotel windows. He could only guess what they were doing up there. A sudden surge of jealousy made him grit his teeth. He knew he had to get a grip on himself, but the feeling nearly overtook him. A couple of fierce shakes of his head and steady breathing calmed him.

Jealousy was replaced with cold resolution settling in the pit of his stomach. An equally cold smile tugged at his lips. For a moment he felt like laughing. His threat was unnecessary. He had long since decided Booth had to disappear and the only way to get the guy out of the picture was taking him out permanently -- erasing him. It would be like hitting the 'Delete' key. His fate would be the same as that obnoxious boyfriend's. He tore his gaze away from the hotel to stare up at the buildings across the street. How easy it could be to find out on what floor they were, break into one of the buildings he was currently studying, go up high enough, and repeat stage I of his plan. How easy and how impossible it would be. Not only had he already disposed his rifle, it would testify to a lack of imagination if he gave in to his impulses. His plan consisted of various stages, each well-thought out and prepared in detail. He'd throw it all out of the window if he went and sealed Booth's fate in the exact same way he had taken that other guy's life. But still...It was a tempting idea.

Just then the object of his morbid fantasies came striding out of the Park Hyatt Washington. Booth halted in the middle of the sidewalk and put his hands in his pockets. Cold night air enveloped Booth as a chilly November wind sent his rapidly-cooling breath whirling around his face. Unconsciously he pressed himself closer to the building. It would be a disaster if the agent spotted him. He'd have to take him out earlier than planned if that was the case and if there was one thing that unsettled him, it was prematurely executing well-constructed plans. It left such a mess killing someone on impulse.

Making sure he was barely breathing because even the slightest breath turned into a miniature cloud of mist that could give away his position, he watched Booth inspect his surroundings. The agent's eyes slid slowly over every parked car, making sure no-one was hiding in one of them. His gaze halted on the opposite buildings for a moment and then continued its path. Booth even searched his side of the sidewalk, but to his relief the agent didn't seem to distinguish his form in the shadows.

When Booth started to his car, he quietly grunted in approval. As much as he wanted -- needed -- the bastard to go down, it wasn't his time yet. Soon it would be. Soon they would meet. But not just yet. First he had some other business to take care of. He turned intending on calling it a day, but he froze when he noted a difference in Booth's footsteps. Instead of the echo of his footfalls dying away, it grew stronger. His eyes widened and he began edging closer to the buildings in an attempt to completely vanish in the shadows. As quietly as possible he moved down the street, ignoring the urge to look over his shoulder. He couldn't afford looking too suspicious now. It would be devastating for his plan. He had to remain calm, inconspicuous, and invisible like a shadow.

He inwardly cursed when Booth picked up his pace. And to his horror he could no longer control himself. It was a furtive glance; it lasted no more than a second. But it was enough to cause Booth to walk even faster. He mumbled incoherently under his breath, quickly threw a look around, and slipped into an alleyway on his right where the light of the streetlamps didn't reach. Once he was around the corner he broke into a run. But so did Booth. He heard him approaching, heard him come hurtling around the corner. Booth was on his tail.

The prey had become the hunter.

He had been discovered.

* * *

_Well, anyone shivering out there? Not to sound big-headed, but I reckon this is a nice chapter to jumpstart the story again, what do you say? _


	8. The Faithless Woman

**AUTHOR'S NOTE** I have so many people to thank here. First of all **Faux Maven** for not abandoning faith in me while I was going through an insomnia-phase. (Well, technically I am still smack dab in the middle of it, but eh...) **FM**, it was and still is a joy working with you. I will never grow tired of your honest opinions. Next in line for thanks is **Mendenbar**. Thanks for providing me with a chapter title! I'm glad to have a torture device expert among my readers. And finally lots of thanks to everyone who read (and lurked), reviewed, added Strappado to their favorites and/or story alert list. You have no idea how much this means to me. And before we plunge right back into the action, let me just say HA HA, I managed to reply to all my reviews! Well, at least I think I did...If I happened to have skipped one, please accept my apologies. That being said, hold on tight because we're in for a ride. :)

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**- VIII -**

**-- THE FAITHLESS WOMAN**** --**

_The Faithless Woman is both a psychological and a physical torture method. It was usually reserved fo__r, as its name suggests, unfaithful women and their lovers. The victims had to face each other and were bound hands around waists and tied in back. They had to stand like that, for hours and hours, until they reached a point of exhaustion. Then they had to choose who would protect the other by falling onto whatever the torturer had laid out around them -- hot coals, spikes or whatever his sadistic mind could come up with._

_In this chapter Brennan is the faithless woman. She is still struggling with what's raging inside of her and with Booth's protective streak. Her faith in him is tested. In the end she comes to rest and a choice is made. They decide who falls, be it alone or together._

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_**Thursday November 29 -**__** Outside Brennan's hotel - 19:16**_

_Shit, shit, shit..._reverberated through Booth's head as he broke into a run and rounded the corner into a trash-filled alleyway. The echo of his inward curses died away as he quietly scanned the scene before him. No one, there was absolutely no one he could see. Had he imagined the man edging along the sidewalk? Had he imagined the piercing stares he had been subjected too? Booth tensed, half turned, and hoped he wasn't going crazy. If his gut began fooling him, what was there to trust?

And then...A shift of a shadow, a flicker of light, and a sudden cry of a cat disturbed in its peacefulness. Booth spun around just in time to see the stray cat jump out from behind a pile of garbage bags. It ran along the alley and flew around the corner emerging onto the sidewalk of 24th Street. There it skittered away, dodging shoes and shins as it weaved through the legs of a few couples walking down the street. Booth's breath hitched in his throat. There were only a limited number of reasons for the cat's cry of pain. Either a stray dog had bitten it or someone had chased it away. Because of the purpose of his search and because the dreadful feeling of being watched all day still clung to his skin, Booth stepped closer to the wall on his left. It was the entire right side of the Park Hyatt Washington he had left only ten minutes ago.

One step at a time, excruciatingly slow and cautious, all the while making sure he stayed in the shadows, Booth walked down the alleyway. His fingers slid over the rough brick wall to guide him because his eyes were fixed on where he had seen the glimmer from the corner of his eye. Someone was there. The presence of the stranger didn't unnerve Booth. It only confirmed what he and Brennan had been uncertain of the minute they had gotten into his SUV that morning. It confirmed he wasn't losing his mind. Someone was there and Booth was determined to catch him.

His every muscle was tense. He was acutely aware of the brick walls on either side of him and the piles of garbage bags crowding around him. Bright moonlight shining down on him lit his way. It was the same moonlight that had given him the flicker of light on metal. He kept moving, his fingertips encountering dips and bumps on the wall, his dress shoes crunching the dirty pavement. Anticipation, the disdain of being ridiculously outsmarted by a common criminal, and a hint of excitement clouded his mind. He was set on trapping whoever had been sneaking around after him. For two weeks he had been played now. It was time for this to come to an end so he, Brennan and the rest of their team could move on to new cases.

But doubt began to settle in his mind. He was halfway along the abandoned alleyway now and so far he hadn't spotted a single soul except for a cat. Was his gut wrong after all? He felt like a hunter, but maybe he was one without a prey. Booth halted, carefully and precisely scanning the rest of the alley. Holding his breath, he listened carefully hoping to catch a rustle of clothes or the hint of a breath. Patiently he waited. He was good at waiting. Back in the day when he had been a sniper, he had waited for hours on end for his target. The last three years he had spent waiting for his partner to react to his subtle advances and approach him like a bee searches the heart of flower. The waiting game was one he was a master at.

Two minutes later everything was still eerily quiet. A light breeze made a flap of garbage bag sway and whisper. And then, however short and fleeting the moment was, the moonlight caught the same piece of metal again. It was a shiny belt buckle. It was no more than a faint glow, but Booth immediately registered it. The man wearing the belt buckle was aware of his adversary having found him the same second it dawned on Booth he was looking at the man who had killed John and hurt Angela. Before Booth had a chance to look at the killer's face, the man leapt to his feet and raced down the alleyway. A curse escaped Booth as he launched himself forward and chased after the man. They ran, jumped over garbage bags, splashed through small shallow pools of rain water, and pressed themselves to run even faster. The alleyway was longer than Booth had presumed. It seemed to him that they kept running and running forever...

Until a sudden burst of energy pushed him forward. Within seconds Booth had a hold of the man's black sweater. His prey slid to a stop, turned, and swung at Booth, but the agent managed to dodge away. But Booth didn't notice his adversary's foot hooking around his ankle until it was too late and he was lying flat on the ground. He rolled over and pushed himself up, but was knocked down again when the heavy lid of a garbage can landed on the back of his head. Though his ears were ringing from the blow and a throbbing ache settled under his skull, Booth turned just enough to see the other man throw himself forward, up against the wall that closed the alleyway off. Quick and agile like a cat he climbed up. On the top of the wall he paused briefly, only long enough to glance down to where Booth was shaking his head while slowly getting to his feet. And then he was gone. Without any hesitation he dropped down the other side of the wall, disappearing into the shadows and the night, leaving Booth below in the alleyway staring after him.

Realizing the prey had outwitted the hunter, Booth cursed and began climbing up the wall himself despite his throbbing head. But when he reached the top where the killer had jumped off, he needed a minute to steady himself. That blow to his head had been harder than he thought. Breathing in and out steadily to calm himself, his eyes swept left to right in the alley below. It was dark and narrow and completely deserted. Booth swore under his breath. He had been close, frighteningly close, and because of one well-placed blow the killer had slipped through Booth's fingers. There wasn't a word to describe the disappointment, defeat, resentment and rage he was experiencing. The killer was pushing them around like defenseless pawns in a game only he knew the rules of. The wish to catch him plagued Booth's mind day and night. And now, in a matter of seconds, he had let him get away. He wouldn't forgive himself until the day he caught the son of a bitch who had dared to mess with Brennan.

Booth gritted his teeth and climbed back down as he suppressed the storm inside of him. Briskly and refusing to look back at the damned wall that had prevented him from catching the murderer, Booth followed the cat's path and retraced his steps to the street. Moments later he was crossing the hotel lobby, wearing a dangerous scowl as testimony to his severe irritation. His dark stare fixed on an unknown point in the distance and the arrogant way he stepped into the elevator and leaned against one of the sides were enough to make anyone who crossed his path grant him space. Like a miniature hurricane, matching the mix of emotions whirling inside of him, he swept through the hallway on the seventh floor, forcing the handful of people he met to step aside. Thus apparent was his agitation.

But as always Brennan was unfazed by what everyone catalogued as a warning to steer clear. The moment Booth barged into the hotel suite, she crossed her arms and steadily stared at him. Booth sighed, as if to deflate the balloon of annoyance inside of him, flung his coat over the back of the luxurious and spacious couch, and flopped down in one of the corners. As he ran his hands over his face and through his hair, ruffling it up considerably, Brennan approached him. She noted damp patches on his coat he had so carelessly tossed aside. Taking in the scuff on the pair of new pair of shoes he had so proudly modeled for her only three weeks ago and his quiet wince as he touched the back of his head, Brennan picked up the faint smell of rotten food -- garbage. It was all over Booth as if he had been rolling around in some dirty back alley. Brennan quickly did the math.

Earlier Booth had set out to do a quick check-up of their surroundings because of their mutual hunch of something not being entirely as it was supposed to be. It now seemed her partner had come face to face with the source of their discomfort in the alleyway next to the hotel. Brennan stiffened and stared at Booth so fiercely as if she wanted to drill a hole through the side of his head, wishing and hoping he would keep from confirming the facts that were screaming at her.

"He was there," he said gruffly in response to Brennan's silent question. Her eyes widened and her arms tightened across her chest.

"So you were right," was her breathless answer.

"Of course I was right. I always am." Booth sent a pointed glare her way, but softened when he saw her distress. There she was, his partner, standing in the middle of the hotel suite, looking as fragile as he had ever seen. The sight of her slightly hunched shoulders, eyes flicking restlessly through the room, and the tension generously radiating from her fired up his irritation some more. If he didn't get a grip on himself, he would surely do something irrational, something he might regret later.

"I had a feeling someone was watching us, but..." Brennan shook her head. "To hear you say it made it seem more definite." Upon receiving a curious look, Brennan lightly shrugged. "You're the gut guy. It's what you're good at. As illogical as it is to believe your gut can tell you what's wrong, fact remains that your feelings usually tend to be quite accurate. You said someone was watching us so I believed you."

Booth leaned back and draped his arm over the back of the couch as he regarded her. "You're taking this trust thing pretty far, Bones. You've got some serious faith in me and what I'm capable of."

"I've been accused of that before," Brennan mumbled as she walked over to the over-sized desk and sat down. The large working area made the defeated set of her shoulders and spine stand out. It was in contrast with the proud, straight-backed woman Booth was used to seeing.

Some of his annoyance and anger ebbed away and was replaced by a deep sense of protectiveness. As much as they both regularly denied it, they were each a part of a whole. He had once jeeringly called their partnership a symbiotic relationship; how true he had been then. One couldn't survive without the other. It perfectly explained why he could sense her confusion and the first signs of panic so accurately. As they both lapsed into silence, Booth kept his eyes on her, wondering how he could prevent her from getting hurt anymore. That's all he seemed to do nowadays -- wondering, waiting and worrying.

Brennan absent-mindedly ran a finger over her closed laptop, pretending to be unaware of Booth's staring. The sound of a woman in high heels passing their suite reached them. As they listened to her walking by, Brennan lifted her head to study her partner. His gaze was unfocused as he loosened his tie and shrugged off his jacket. He frowned and was seemingly working something out in his head. Brennan wondered what exactly he was mulling over -- the man he had presumably chased earlier, the funeral or what had taken place nearly ten hours ago against the wall to her right?

She averted her eyes when Booth unbuttoned the top of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves past his elbows. Unintentionally they came to a rest on the one spot she felt uncomfortable looking at -- the spot of wall right next to the bedroom door. It was the spot where Booth had pinned her and where something unnamable had passed between them. It hadn't been a current, had been too weak and liquid for a spark. It had been something unsettling. But in a good way. Brennan abruptly stood up shaking her head.

"You should go, Booth. It's getting late."

"I'm not going anywhere." As he spoke, he draped his jacket over the back of the couch and reached down to untie his shoes. In a minute he had disposed of them and curled his toes clad in wildly striped socks in the hotel suite's rug.

Brennan's eyebrows shot up. "You can't stay."

"Why not? You've got room. I can sleep on the couch." He bounced up and down a few times as an experiment and smiled approvingly before swinging his feet onto the low table standing in front of him. He relaxed, expectantly looking at Brennan.

She rolled her eyes as she went to him. Nudging his legs with her knee, she snapped, "Feet off my table."

"It's not your table. It's the hotel's."

"That's beside the point. Feet off the table, grab your things, and leave."

"Bones, what-" His voice rose half an octave when Brennan poked his shoulder to urge him to stand up.

"Booth," Brennan warned, all the while poking, prodding and nudging until he was on his feet. As much as she dreaded to admit it, she wouldn't mind having him around, but it would be dangerous for her independence. She couldn't risk lying awake for hours on end because he was in the next room.

Booth glared at her. "That's it. I've had it." Before Brennan could react, he spun around and invaded her personal space. Defiantly he stared at her. "I've let you push me away long enough, Bones. There's a murderer out there; a guy who's obviously after us. You can't expect me to leave you right now. Not after we've established that there's a big chance he's keeping an eye on us. I refuse, alright?"

Brennan glanced away, but made eye-contact almost immediately again, albeit a bit reluctantly. Booth reckoned this wasn't a fight she desperately wanted to win. But why was she driven to push him away then? "Don't make me force you out." Her threat was weak and Brennan was all too aware of it.

"I'd like to see you try." He was thrown for a moment when Brennan closed her eyes and sucked in a quivering breath. Hesitant, unsure of his next, rather bold, move, Booth lightly brushed her cheek. "It's alright, Bones," he mumbled. Repeating his gesture, he brushed a strand of hair away. Brennan's eyes slowly slid open, regarding him with a puzzled, mysterious look. Booth braced himself for rejection as he opened his arms a bit, tilted his head, and calmly asked, "Guy hug?"

She stared at him, waiting. She waited and waited until eventually Booth dropped his arms down his side again. "Let's line up all the evidence we've got so far." Her tone meant business, but her eyes focused on everything except Booth's disappointed face and the barely perceptible slump of his shoulders.

"Whatever you say, Bones," he mumbled. Sitting down again, Booth realized he wouldn't be sent away, and calmly listened to Brennan's monologue. She paced up and down in front of him as she enumerated every tiny detail and every remotely interesting piece of proof they had noted and bagged. She reasoned and rationalized forgetting that Booth knew the case just as well. Finally she came to a rest.

Hands clasped behind her back, Brennan said, "I need to examine the evidence myself."

Booth sighed. "You know you can't. You're not on this case."

"But maybe the FBI forensics lab is missing something," Brennan replied. "You know my team is the best. We could help you."

"Listen," Booth started, standing up and approaching her. "I know the squints are atop the league when it comes to, well...squinting and drowning me with scientific mumbo jumbo, but it doesn't matter. You, John and Angela are the victims in this case. I couldn't officially assign you even if I wanted to."

Brennan narrowed her eyes. "You don't _want_ us on your case?"

"Does personal involvement ring a bell?"

"That's not a valid argument and you know it. You're personally involved too!"

"But not on the same level as you." He cocked his head to the side and gave her a somewhat pleading look. "Go with me on this one, Bones. You know I can't help you."

"Says the man who involved my team the second the Gravedigger took me." Brennan shook her head as she disappeared to her bedroom. Two minutes later she emerged with a bundle of sheets and a pillow. "Goodnight, Booth," she earnestly said while shoving everything in his arms. Booth opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, Brennan turned and walked away again, leaving Booth alone. The only door connecting the living area with the bedroom was shut with a dry click to indicate all conversation -- all contact, it seemed -- was cut off until morning.

---&---

_**Thursday November 29 - **__**Brennan's hotel room - A bit after midnight**_

The soft patter of Brennan's bare feet on the parquet broke the heavy silence hanging in the 'Park Deluxe' room. Booth blinked and propped himself up on his elbows to see her come padding through the door that connected the living area with the bedroom. The moonlight slipping through the blinds Booth had deliberately left open shone on the tank top and loose pair of pajama pants she was wearing. Even in the dim light he could clearly feel her eyes locking onto him. When she came to a stop beside his make-shift bed on the couch, Booth rose to his feet. Smoothing down his white wife-beater, he stared at her questioningly. Brennan looked away, through the open blinds, into the night.

"You have to let me help, Booth," she stated. "I can't watch you chase every lead and not be right there beside you."

Booth shook his head. "I can't assign you." When she turned to face him, he gave her a small smile. "Not officially anyway." Brennan's eyes widened before she relaxed. "We'll make this work, Bones. But we'll have to keep this under wraps as much as possible."

"Deal," Brennan nodded satisfied.

They stood silently for a moment, awkwardly frozen into position by their sudden and unexpected agreement. Brennan had come to her partner to convince him to include her in the investigation. Now that she had obtained her goal, she wasn't sure what else was keeping her rooted to the spot next to the bundle of Booth's bed sheets. A strange feeling pooled in the pit of her stomach, but oddly enough she couldn't name it right away. The toes of her right foot curled into the living room rug as Booth sauntered over to the window. It was then that Brennan realized what was nibbling and fretting on the inside. Before she had time to properly think her actions through Brennan moved to join Booth in his quiet gazing at a world asleep. Ever so lightly she ran her fingertips over his upper arm.

"Are you sure it's a safe idea to be standing in front of a window like this? I'd hate for you to end up like John."

Booth shrugged. "We're safe. The buildings across the street aren't high enough for a sniper to target someone in this room."

Nodding in understanding, Brennan ran her fingers up his arm again. "Is your offer for a guy hug still valid?"

Booth threw her a scrutinizing look as her gently uttered and quietly desperate words sunk in. A curt nod marked his permission. As if in a dream, bathing in moonlight, Brennan slid her arms around his waist and let her head rest against his shoulder. Her pajama pants brushed his bare legs clad only in a pair of boxers as Booth drew her closer -- gathered her in his arms as though she was a precious relic. There they stood. Psychology wrapped around science. Emotions pressed against facts. The cliché hard against soft, Yin against Yang. Man and Woman. Two bubbles of loneliness that had been lost in a sea of trauma and disturbance now fused in a more than tender embrace.

A tremor shook Brennan when Booth's nose nuzzled her hair before he placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head. It wasn't light as a feather or as shocking as an out of the blue peck on the cheek. It was what it was -- a brushing of lips against her skull, meant to be noticed and meant to reassure.

"This isn't a regular guy hug, is it?" Brennan mumbled into his shoulder. Booth briefly stiffened, but when he felt Brennan's arms stay locked around him he exhaled slowly into her hair.

"No, it's not," he admitted.

It was of no importance. As they hugged each other tightly and tenderly at the same time in front of the large window giving out onto an empty street, they accepted each other's comfort for what it was. Reality and realization could catch up later with them. For now all they needed was the feel of skin on skin and knowing they wouldn't pass the night alone. Little did they know their embrace was reflected in a mirror, seen from across the street by the man who loathed their intimacy even more than how Booth had sabotaged his plans.


	9. The Garrote

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **In general you guys seemed to enjoy the B&B interlude at the end of chapter 8. What you are about to read is pretty much the total opposite. Thus, for the sensitive souls out there, I am slapping a big, fat warning sign on this chapter!

**Faux Maven**...Goodness, woman, we worked hard on this chapter, did we not? With the first draft being a complete disaster (and I am not exaggerating here -- I did a total rewrite before I sent it back to FM) and some time issues on both our sides, we really had to focus. But it all paid out in the end, right? Just so you know, I am very proud of the end result.

Also, as usual, thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter 8. You guys rock!

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**- IX -**

**-- THE GARROTE --**

_The Garrote is one of the few torture devices with a rather extensive history. The first Garrotes made their appearance in the first century B.C. in Rome. During the Middle Ages it was mostly used in Spain and Portugal by the Inquisition. In 1974 the Garrote was used for execution for the last time in Spain as well as the rest of the world, but it wasn't until 1990 that Andorra -- the only country that still had garroting as death penalty -- abolished the Garrote. _

_The Garrote was mostly used on heretics who had already confessed their crimes. Heretics who didn't confess were burned alive at the stake. The Inquisition treated confessed heretics differently because being killed by the Garrote only takes a few minutes, as opposed to the rather lengthy period of time it takes a human to burn to death. Once heretics had confessed, the Inquisition saw no reason to keep them alive any longer than necessary._

_Being sentenced to the Garrote meant you were convicted to be strangled to death. The basic principle of the Garrote is that you were seated on a plate of wood attached to an upright plank. Your hands and feet were tied and a rope that ran through a hole in the upright plank was looped tightly around your neck -- tight enough to slowly choke the life out of you when the torturer began pulling the rope. Later on the rope was replaced by a thick band of iron that was snapped around the neck and which was drawn backwards to asphyxiate the victim._

_A particularly cruel version of the medieval Garrote was the Catalan Garrote. Your head was held in place while a blade or a spike was driven through the plank you were tied to, straight into your neck. This method was often used to hasten the breaking of the neck. For all you movie addicts out there, this type of torture device was used in two James Bond movies -- __The World Is Not Enough__ and __From Russia with Love_

_In modern times the Garrote __is mostly used in assassination because it is completely silent. A length of rope, chain, scarf or wire wrapped around a person's neck and wound tight enough effectively shuts off all oxygen supply and slowly strangles the victim._

_In this chapter __Madman executes the next stage in his plan. He combines the Garrote torture together with another rather gruesome torture method to take out the next squint on his list. But will he succeed?

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_

_**Friday November 30 - At an unknown location - 07:00**_

Tired. He was so tired. Every ounce of energy and strength he possessed had been spent in favor of survival. He was exhausted, but determined nonetheless to push his logical mind past the point of suffering a man could bear, past the limit of endurance. He could beat this. They would find him. If only he could ward off the darkness fighting to overtake him long enough. If only he could keep on breathing, no matter how ragged the intake sounded, no matter how his battered chest ached with every rise and fall. He just needed to try and fight to keep his head cool.

As he drew in gulps of air, he squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on a single thought that pounded like a chant right beneath the top of his skull. _Stay conscious. Stay conscious. Stay conscious._ The three syllables kept him focused; they drove him away from the black void he was facing. If he let himself drop over the edge, the sense of logic he was so keen of would be lost. _He_ would be lost because without logic he would only be an empty vessel, an empty shell, drifting in a sea of bitter black.

Grunting, biting back moans, and with grated breath, Zach tried to clench his fists to get the blood circulating again, but found that he couldn't. His vision hazy, he twisted his head as far as he could. He blinked several times in an attempt to clear his sight, but it was of no use. Some kind of liquid kept dripping down his face, pooling in the hollows of his eye sockets. Zach shook his head, blinked some more, and then froze in utter shock. One minute panic rose like bile in his throat, the next he was doing his best at whipping his head around in an attempt to get rid of the dark red river running in his eyes. Blood -- he had blood obscuring his sight. The buzzing in his ears increased with every weak shake of his head. The incessant drumming in his mind drove his skull to the point of explosion. He had to get rid of the blood..._now._ But he couldn't move. Something was keeping his head in place, was keeping him from ridding himself of his own blood. It nearly drove him out of his mind. It nearly robbed him of the logic he desperately wanted to preserve.

He had no idea how much time passed before he finally calmed down. It could have been hours or mere minutes before he let his head hang and let the blood drip to the ground. It was then that the blur that was his vision cleared up. The numbing darkness he was afraid of receded and made room for figurative light. It flooded his head and shot through his limbs and organs until he nearly fainted. He welcomed the light, used it to banish the remainders of unconsciousness to the corners of his mind, even though it made him painfully aware of every cracked bone and every stinging slice in his skin. But somehow his brain didn't register the stabs of pain. It only welcomed his clear vision. Zach breathed out, relieved. His internal chant didn't cease, his ears were filled with whispers that urged him to keep his eyes wide open, and his body hummed with the loud thumping of his pulse, but at least he could examine his surroundings.

He was in a forest. Trees huddling together and bushes crowding for space surrounded him. Waves of sunlight pushed through the nearly naked tree branches and set the carpet of wet and rotting leaves covering the ground on fire. Unintentionally Zach wrinkled his nose. The unusual bright and sunny November sun was drying every inch of damp leaf and bark it could reach. Unfortunately the process seemed to enhance the rather foul smell of rotting flora. Zach pursed his lips and ignored his nose. So he was in a forest. Exactly what was he doing here? How he had ended up in the middle of a forest, he didn't even want to remember. Not yet anyway.

When he looked up he wasn't surprised to see he was standing under a tree himself. But once he had established that fact, a side effect of the light he had embraced washed over him in all its white hot fury. His sense of feeling returned in a rush, harsh and unexpected. He gasped, well aware of how uncommon a reaction it was of him. Jagged edges were poking his back and when he wriggled around, unable to move freely as he wished, he hissed in pain. His entire back, from head to toe, rubbed against hard unforgiving bark. It nearly scraped off the top layer of his skin, despite his thin shirt and jeans. It felt as if thousands of tiny papercuts were scattered across his back. The blood and sweat that ran from his pores dripped into the numerous cuts setting his entire skin on fire. He stiffened in pain and wanted nothing more than to break free from the hell he was being subjected to -- torture that reminded him of a torture method he had once read about...the Death of a Thousand Knives. But to his horror, he couldn't move a muscle, let alone a limb.

Panic threatening to overwhelm his sanity and even the splitting headache he was developing, surged through him. He tried to pull his hands to the front. Nothing budged. He pulled again, harder this time. Still nothing budged. Slowly Zach lowered his gaze. First he noticed the state of his shirt. The few shreds of fabric covering his torso explained why he felt the bark rubbing directly on his back. Then his eyes were drawn to the twists of plainly colored rope wrapped around his body. The rope looped a few times around his ankles, ran around the tree, came back to wind around his thighs. Another length of rope was wrapped five times around his waist and chest, strapping his torso efficiently against the rough tree trunk, and eventually settled snuggly around his wrists which were tied back, almost touching at the other side of the tree trunk. The third rope he was tied to the tree with was the cause of his shallow breathing and of the lack of free movement of his head. It was a thick piece of rope circling his neck as if it was a dog collar. It pulled against the skin right below his Adam's apple, intensifying the near-choking experience.

In a strange way his entanglement reminded him of an intricate web woven by an ambitious spider. His heart was the center and all the rope shot out to stretch around his limbs and neck. Zach shook his head, unsatisfied by his comparison. It made no sense that he was part of a web. Then it hit him. He wasn't the web and he wasn't just woven into a web; he was an insignificant part of a much larger web. Part of an unknown scheme, that's what he was. His eyes narrowed as the thought fully formed. A web was meant to catch the spider's prey. He was part of the web so he could conclude he was being used as bait. He was meant to lure someone while his captor was probably hiding in the shadows, waiting for an ideal opportunity to drag his prey to his corner of the web.

Zach involuntarily shuddered, unwilling to consider his bait theory further, before viciously yanking against his restraints. He had to try and break free before...before...For a brief moment Zach cursed his knowledge-hungry, fact-spouting brain when realization dawned. He wasn't just wrapped up in cord like some ancient mummy; it was cotton rope that kept him pinned to the tree. Cotton rope -- _very wet_ cotton rope -- held him captive. And _wet_ cotton rope could only do one thing: dry. The cord was already wound painfully tight around him. It would mean his death, or at least an excruciatingly slow fall into unconsciousness as it dried and tightened even more because most of the blood would be trapped in his limbs. With closed off veins, all the precious oxygen he managed to suck in would have no chance of circulating in his body. He would die from oxygen deprivation. But that would only happen if the painfully tight piece of cotton circling his throat didn't crush his windpipe closed and keep him from breathing. He would suffocate in a much more direct manner that way.

The unpleasant vision of his trachea being forced closed, depriving his lungs from much needed air, inspired Zach into another attempt of breaking free. Again he achieved nothing except for dragging the rough rope across his skin. He winced when the tender skin of his wrists was scraped raw. Cuts on his back, a deep slash in his forehead, wrists being flayed. It was enough to let the young genius hang his head in defeat. He was strapped to a tree in about the same fashion Jesus had been pinned to his cross. Only he didn't have a throng of believers crowding around him, dying to set him free. The only people he knew -- the only friends he had -- probably weren't even aware of his disappearance. The chill morning air hugging him told him it was too early. They would all still be asleep. They would find him when it was too late. He might just as well surrender to the darkness that was itching to wash over him.

_Stay conscious. Stay rational._

Zach jerked his head up when those four words flooded his mind. While he had been studying his precarious situation, the chant had lulled, had been pushed to the background. And now it came rushing back to him. It kicked him out of his gloomy state of mind. It knocked some sense into him. And to top it all off, the voice in his head sounded like Booth. In a way Zach wasn't surprised. He admired the FBI-agent, had even approached him for advice regarding the letter he had received that asked him to go to Iraq. As much as Booth knew about honor and duty, he had to know at least as much about survival. It only seemed logical that the man Zach had deemed as his role model was now his voice of reason.

It took him a massive amount of concentration, but he managed to flex a couple of muscles. Pain shot up his arms when his fingers suddenly curled and cramped up. But the result was more than satisfying. If he could keep his muscles moving, his blood flowing, he could slow down the strangulation process. He could delay it enough until his friends tracked him down.

_Stay conscious. Stay rational._

He forced his windpipe open, drawing in deep breaths. His chest expanded and deflated. His brow furrowed in concentration and a trickle of sweat dripped down his temple as he worked his breathing until a rhythm close to regular, unobstructed respiration was his. If he hadn't been tied up, Zach would have fallen onto his knees in gratitude because he could breathe again.

_Stay conscious. Stay rational._

It was as simple as naming all the bones in his left foot. It was innate knowledge. It was instinct. It was survival. The words became a significant part of him. If he kept repeating them, he would remain focused. And if he was focused enough, he would live. Listening and following the chant would be all he would do until the moment he saw one of his friends come running to him. He would fight, would ward off delirium, would not faint. He would stay conscious. He would stay rational. He refused to give up.

---&---

_**Friday November 30 – Hodgins' mansion – 07:55**_

"Zach! Come on dude, rise and shine!" Hodgins shouted as he first knocked, then banged on Zach's front door.

Like every other morning, Hodgins was waiting for the young genius to come out and tag along with him and Angela to the lab. Only today Zach hadn't been waiting downstairs, next to Hodgins' red Mini Cooper. Hodgins had shrugged Zach's lateness off, but after more than ten minutes of standing around, he had grown irritated and had climbed the stairs leading from his garage to Zach's apartment. If Zach wanted to hitch a ride with him and Angela to work, he had to be on time. Otherwise boy genius could take the bus, which he hated with fervor thanks to the ever present smell of sweaty feet.

Angela, who accompanied Hodgins, crossed her arms and stared at the door, equally puzzled. Hodgins quirked an eyebrow at her and eventually gave up his persistent banging. Slowly his irritation evolved to worry. It wasn't anything like Zach to be late, much less to give him the cold shoulder. He should have come out by now and stated if Hodgins wanted to break down his door an axe would be more effective than his fists. Cold sweat dampened his back when Hodgins' eyes flicked to Angela. His irises dilated and his nostrils flared slightly. It couldn't be...

A curse got stuck in his throat when Hodgins fished a key chain out of his pocket. With trembling hands he used one of the keys to unlock the door. Just before he pushed the door open, he took in the sight of Angela standing next to him. She was pale and wide-eyed and worry and anxiety played over her features. Just like him, Angela was suppressing all the possible explanations why Zach wasn't answering the door -- ignoring vehemently the most obvious one. But there was one particular image Hodgins couldn't hold back. A flash of Angela's lovely skin ravaged by blood-red scratches leading from her throat down her chest shot through his mind. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut and gulped before determinedly gripping the door knob and twisting it. This could not be happening. Not again; not Zach!

"Zach?" he tentatively called out as the door swung open. Preceding Angela, Hodgins crossed the threshold.

And immediately stopped dead in his tracks. Angela nearly bumped into him, but was shocked to complete stillness as well as she beheld the chaos before her. The entire place was a mess. Not just a messy disorder that was created by a laziness and a lack of regular cleaning, but a downright _mess_. From where Hodgins and Angela were standing, they couldn't see a single thing that was in its rightful place, where they had seen it the last time they had set foot in Zach's loft above Hodgins' garage.

All the shelves of Zach's bookcase had been swept clean as if someone had carelessly brushed his books aside. But the truth probably was that someone -- almost certainly Zach -- had been shoved repeatedly against the piece of furniture thereby sending his precious volumes of knowledge crashing down. The couch stood crooked, the coffee table was pushed on its side, and one of the upended floor lamps looked as if the shade had been trampled. The couch cushions were spread across the floor together with the books and the remnants of the few plants Zach had kept and which had obviously toppled off the window sills. Zach's collection of self-made robots that had proudly stood on display on a table near the bookcase lay in a pile of bits and pieces on the living room carpet, one particular robot on the other side of the carpet, separated from its comrades.

When their eyes landed on the toy, their breaths hitched. Hodgins stared at the miniature robot, willing Zach to come strolling in, but knowing full well that wasn't going to happen. He was torn from his shocked state when Angela let out a soft shriek. She rushed over to the wall on their left, to the painting she had given Zach to dress up his apartment. Hodgins followed her, almost reluctant because he knew what he was going to find wouldn't be pleasant. Angela's hand shook almost imperceptibly as she breathed out shakily and reached out. Her fingertips hovered about an inch over the painting, tracing the outline of a dark red smear.

"Blood," she whispered.

It was enough to trigger Hodgins into a frantic search for his cell phone. Once he held the damned thing in his hand, he quickly dialed a familiar number and waited with bated breath. When his call was finally answered, Hodgins didn't get enough time to wring out a mandatory greeting. He was immediately cut off by the smooth and deep voice of an obviously irritated FBI-agent who knew how to use caller ID.

"Look Hodgins, whatever kind of dirt has got you excited enough to call me at eight in the morning, it'll have to wait. I'm on my way to-"

"He took him," Hodgins cut him off in a grim voice.

"What?"

"_He _took Zach." Hodgins' knuckles turned white from the death grip he had on his phone. "Zach's gone...taken by _him._"

Booth was silent for perhaps one or two seconds. Then he exploded into a wave of anger punctuated by a harsh curse and a bitter, "I'll send a team over."

---&---

_**Friday November 30 - At an unknown location**__** - noon**_

He was tired. Dead tired. Close to giving up. All the energy Zach had summoned hours ago had nearly all been spent. The bit of strength he had left, he used to keep his windpipe open. If he could just keep on breathing everything would turn out alright. If he kept on fighting, he would survive. The darkness threatening to swallow him whole would be kept at a distance if he didn't let go of the light. After all, victory came to those who persisted.

Zach had been deliberately avoiding the shards of memories of how he had ended up in his current situation. He wanted to deal with them when he was somewhere familiar like his apartment or, better yet, the Jeffersonian -- at least some place and some time when he was less 'tied up'. But with every passing minute, with every torn breath that passed through his raw and itchy throat, his chances of keeping the memories at bay diminished. The odds of facing the terrible fight that had taken place at his apartment on his own conditions grew smaller and smaller. He didn't have the strength anymore to will away the stabs of pain his capture had brought him. All of his energy went into breathing; there was nothing left to prevent the memories from jumping him and dragging him by his feet into looming darkness.

He was one second away from finally giving in when he heard a peculiar rustling of leaves. The sound grew louder and drew nearer. Zach's eyes widened. Could it be? Could someone be on his way to rescue him? He was almost scared to believe it, but all doubt vanished when the bushes a bit further ahead swayed back and forth as if someone was pushing his way through them. Shards of shouted conversation drifted over to him.

"...oak tree...only found...woods...I planted..."

Without any further warning, Hodgins suddenly burst through the bushes, right into the small clearing that was framed by the trees Zach had been staring at the entire morning. The relief that hit Zach square in the chest was too big to comprehend. It was enormous, a tidal wave. If he hadn't been tied to a tree, he would have collapsed. The urge to sob in relief took him by surprise. Zach rarely showed strong emotions, but now he actually felt like sobbing. He had come close to dying and now his friends were here to protect him from harm. If that wasn't a good enough excuse to let his emotions run wild and cry, just this once, he didn't know what was.

"Doctor...Agent...Suffer." His voice croaked because of the almost entirely dried up cotton cord. He was making no sense, was babbling like a fool. He didn't even know what he was on about, why he wasn't calling Hodgins and Angela by their names. Instead all that fell from his mouth as his friends ran over to him and began picking at the nearly dry rope was "Suffer...Doctor Brennan...Agent Bo-" A sudden bright moment. "I hit him with one of my robots." And then the world began to spin out of control, slowly at first but soon picking up speed until everything had faded into a blur.

"Hey buddy, stay with me, alright?" Zach heard Hodgins say. He nodded.

_Stay conscious. Stay rational. Stay conscious. Stay rational. Stay consci-_

Oh, to hell with staying conscious. He welcomed the darkness now that his friends were with him. They would catch him; he was sure of it. A quick dip in black oblivion would spare him the agony of being cut loose. He would return to the light soon enough, but for now he needed the darkness to cloak his pain and make him forget, if only for a little while. As Zach allowed the darkness to overtake him, he heard the distinct click of a cell phone being flipped open.

"It's alright, Booth. We've got him."

And then the world turned soothingly black.

* * *

_What do you say -- are we back on the shiver inducing track?_


	10. The Malleus Maleficarum

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **It seems like the site is acting all wonky again. I hope everyone who put Strappado on Story Alert got an alert and that the GO-button at the bottom of the page works properly. If not, too bad. I'm sending this chapter out anyway because I am just too anal about my posting schedule!

That being said, I believe it is time for another round of thank you's. Thank you whoever put Strappado on Story Alert. Thank you whoever put me on Author Alert. Thank you whoever put me or Strappado on their Favourites List. And thank you all of those lovely people who took the time to let me know what they thought about chapter 9.

And last but far from being least, thank you **Faux Maven**. We literally pieced this chapter together. Thanks for using your superior "Copy and Paste Techniques" on the two chapter drafts I sent you. If I had been in a really lousy mood, I would have shoved the very first draft into your inbox as well. lol Seriously, I rather enjoyed working on this chapter. Mostly because of the research we did to find an appropriate chapter title (the original one was kind of a bold title...it would have been more a political statement than a chapter title) and especially because of that small mind melding moment we had when we came across the same information. So thank you, for being around whenever I need you, for entertaining me during my lunch break (which is breakfast time for you), and for putting as much effort into this as me.

* * *

**- X -**

**-- THE MALLEUS MALEFICARUM --**

_The Malleus Maleficarum __is one of the most famous medieval manuals on how to hunt and punish witches. Translated the title means "The Hammer of Witches" or "Hexenhammer" in German. It was written by Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger in 1486. The Malleus was submitted to the University of Cologne's Faculty of Theology in 1487. The Faculty condemned the book, as did the Catholic Church who banned the book in 1490 and placed it on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum ("The List of Prohibited Books")._

_The Malleus remained in use for over three hundred years. It was the Bible of the witch-hunters, providing them with the necessary information about how to detect a witch, persecute her, gather evidence to prove her guilt, and punish her accordingly. Hundreds of people, mostly women, were branded as witch because of this book and were tortured and murdered in the name of the law. And all because the Malleus confirmed that the happenstance of having a strange birthmark on a place the Devil loved, the cultivation of medicinal herbs, mental illness or as insubstantial as false accusations was "hard evidence" of the victims being witches._

_The__Inquisitors made much use of the Malleus during their intense witch-hunts. They made good use of its advice to deceive a suspect in order to discover the truth. In this chapter Booth brings in a suspect. With the kidnapping of Zach in the back of his mind, he tries to lure the suspect into answering his questions and hopefully finding out something useful. He poses questions in a cunning way, just like the Inquisition did, in the hope the suspect talks himself into a corner and reveals all. And of course, Booth's questioning mainly serves to catch Madman, in this case the equivalent of a witch._

* * *

_**Friday November 30 - FBI headquarters - 12:08**_

Back and forth. Back and forth. Shoulders squared, muscles tensed, brow creased, and eyes fixed on the object trapped below his index finger, Booth hardly blinked as he pushed and pulled his poker chip across his desk. In the past twenty minutes, he had hardly moved as he listened intently to the hard plastic scraping the wooden surface. The muffled sounds of ringing phones, the clicking of heels and the squeaking of dress shoes, and the unnerving bleeping of Xerox machines spitting out dozens of copies per minute vaguely resounded through the closed door of Booth's office. They drowned in the nagging scrape of plastic on wood.

He wasn't going to tell her. There was absolutely no way in hell that Booth was going to fill Brennan in on Zach's whereabouts -- or rather the lack of knowledge of his location. It would thrust Brennan right out of the somewhat peaceful state of mind she had achieved the night before. It would shake her more than she would let on. Booth had already seen her cool exterior nearly crack and shatter when Angela had been attacked. He had no desire whatsoever to be the bearer of bad news again. Brennan might not intentionally shoot him for being the messenger boy, but until he had even the tiniest slice of good news to go along with the truckload of bad Booth would keep his mouth shut. That strong was his desire to keep Brennan safe.

Zach had been taken. As the words popped into Booth's mind, he almost groaned in response. Abruptly he threw himself back against the back of his chair, crossed his arms, and gave his poker chip a pensive, bordering on brooding, stare. More than three hours ago Hodgins had spilled the news in a tight voice over the phone. Booth had been about to inform Hodgins he was bringing in a potential suspect possibly related to all their cases when the entomologist had abruptly cut in and had voiced words that had turned Booth's blood cold. In less than thirty seconds Hodgins had managed to raise every hair on the agent's body and had stirred the mix of anger and embarrassment already threatening to overwhelm Booth.

Zach had been kidnapped from right under their noses. And not by just anybody. Though they hadn't yet found any substantial evidence linking Zach's disappearance to the man they were after, both Hodgins and Booth were certain they were dealing with the same guy. It was just too much of a coincidence, an undeniable fact that played a significant part in any serious conspiracy and murder investigation and therefore right up Hodgins' and Booth's alley. It was only a matter of time before they found the red thread that connected all three cases. But that was of less importance at the moment. First they had to track down Zach and bring him home, preferably safe and in one piece.

As he crossed his arms, Booth's mind turned to the matter he was just as concerned about as Zach's disappearance. The young genius had been taken and Booth was going to lie about it to Brennan. A shiver of disgust ran down his spine and his scowl turned sour. That was exactly what he was going to do. He was going to lie to his partner, straight-faced. He was going to defile their mutual trust and obscure the truth and he didn't even feel as guilty as he should. Booth shifted around in his seat, uncomfortable with the realization. Of course he was aware that he didn't feel too guilty because he believed it was best for Brennan if she didn't find out about Zach's situation before he was found, but still...

Perhaps it would help if he didn't think of it as lying, but rather as forgetting to mention an important fact. Booth cringed. In the end, when Brennan found out, the distinction wouldn't matter because she would be contemptuous of him anyway, but for the moment it eased his conscience a bit. At least enough to allow him to compose himself and appear genuine and truthful. Pushing out a deep sigh, Booth tried to control the frustration building inside of him. He was disgusted with himself because he was going to lie to Brennan. He was angry because he was forced to lie by some unknown stranger who was wreaking havoc on him and his team.

The thought made Booth involuntarily reach up to softly touch the bump on the back of his head, suppressing a wince as his fingers made contact. Like a rookie he had let his defenses down and had been punished accordingly with a mind numbing blow to the skull. It wasn't so much the actual blow and the sore bump that annoyed him as the embarrassment it entailed. That combined with his having to willfully deceive Brennan was enough to spark severe irritation and make him wish he could do some serious damage, preferably to the poor excuse of a killer who had turned their lives into an ongoing hell the second he had pulled the trigger two weeks ago.

Surprisingly, their predicament was starting to make sense to Booth. Zach's disappearance confirmed the theory he began to develop right after he had found the package of disposable nipples at Angela's crime scene. It definitely was no coincidence that Zach had been taken. Hodgins had hit the proverbial nail on the head. _He_ had kidnapped Zach. _He_ was crossing off squints marked on his "To Torture List". Angela and Zach were victims; Booth was certain they were on the murderer's list. How John fit into the picture, Booth wasn't so sure. The man had been only three months in Brennan's life -- too short to be of actual meaning to Brennan and too long to be ignored.

Booth shook his head, trying to gain perspective. The question wasn't why John was murdered. What bothered Booth was that he wasn't sure if the killer had wanted to punish Brennan by killing John or if Brennan was still on the list and would be harmed at some unknown point in the future. Booth's anger tinged with distress and flared at the thought of his partner suffering in the hands of an unknown lunatic. But his frustration was shoved to the background when he suddenly realized the nature of his thoughts.

He suspected the killer to be _punishing_ Brennan Somehow, subconsciously, he had defined all the attacks as acts of punishment. There was no proof to support his theory; it was all based on what his gut was telling him. Booth ruefully smiled as tried to relax his muscles, picked up his poker chip, and flipped it in the air. The very idea of his gut talking to him on some subconscious level...

"Bones is going to love that one," he muttered.

"I'm going to love what?"

The question took him by surprise. He needed all of his willpower to maintain his nonchalant air and indifference instead of jumping like a five year old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Because of his brooding, Booth had lost track of time and had forgotten he was supposed to meet Brennan at their usual interrogation room around 12:00. Booth plastered on a smile and slid his poker chip in his pocket. "Hey Bones."

_---&--- _

_**Friday November 30 - Hoover Building, on the way to the interrogation room - 12:17**_

"So when are you going to tell me why you had me come down here?"

Booth glanced at her from the side as they moved down the hallway. The sounds that had been muffled by Booth's closed office door before now washed over them in all their ferocity. "As if you mind being here..."

"Seriously, Booth," Brennan said trying to sound stern but the upward curling of the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement. "I haven't even stopped by the lab yet today. I was at the FBI forensics lab earlier and I was planning on heading to the Jeffersonian when you called."

"And what exactly were you doing at the FBI lab?" Booth took a left turn and halfway down the hallway he pushed a door on his right open. It led to the separate room connected to the interrogation room. He strode in without paying attention to the three monitors against the left wall and the table placed underneath them, the usual sparse furnishing easy to ignore. "Probably making the FBI squints wish they had taken the day off," he answered his own question.

"Booth, I was just-" Brennan abruptly stopped talking, dropping her reply as soon as she caught sight of the man sitting at the other side of the window. "Who's that?" she asked as she came to stand beside Booth in front of the glass pane. She crossed her arms and leaned closer to the two-way mirror to take a better look at him. Hair black as tar gelled back into place, unusually bright blue eyes, and features that could have belonged to one of those male models Brennan often found staring at her from the cover of popular magazines. His tight fitting T-shirt hinted at toned muscles and enhanced the broadness of his shoulders. Barely finished with her cursory examination, Brennan suddenly pinched her lips and a look of venom entered her eyes. "Is this-"

"No," Booth swiftly cut in. "It's not him. The guy I chased yesterday was at least three inches shorter and built differently, more athletic, leaner." Booth shook his head. "This guy here is pure muscle. He trains strength, not endurance, and the man we're looking for can easily run a mile without losing his breath."

"How do you know?"

"I ran after him, remember? Plus, he hunted Angela all over Town Square Plaza."

Brennan nodded. She wasn't about to put Angela's traumatic attack and Booth's experience in the hotel's next door alley into question. "Then who is he?"

"Meet Albert Miller," Booth muttered without taking his eyes off the man.

"Should I know him?"

"Yes, you should." Booth tilted his head and arched an eyebrow at her. "He's been one of the Jeffersonian's security guards for about six years now. He usually patrols the parking lot. You must've run into him at least once." Brennan gave him a blank look which resulted in Booth lifting his other eyebrow. "But then again, you don't exactly make a point of remembering people's faces, let alone their names."

Brennan, somewhat peeved by Booth's reproach, returned, "It's not like I have to work with him, _Booth_. His name is irrelevant to me." A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, similar to what she saw on Booth's face, when she stressed his name.

"Always the kind one, Bones," he mumbled.

"Kindness is overrated." Brennan dismissed the topic as she kept her gaze steady on Miller who was fidgeting nervously in his seat. It was interesting to see such a huge man who oozed dominance and brutal strength turn into a mess of nerves and doubt. "Why did you bring him in?"

"Because of this." Booth reached to his left to pick up a video tape from the table against the wall. Brennan questioningly quirked an eyebrow. "You'll see," Booth said. "Just listen carefully and promise me you won't interrupt."

"Why would I do that?"

Booth sighed. "Just promise me, Bones. No unexpected barging in, no shouting through the intercom, no tapping the window. You got that?"

"Sure, because I have a habit of doing those things," Brennan dryly retorted, but her reply was lost on Booth since he was already moving out of the room and on his way to the other side.

Just before he pushed the door open, Booth took a moment to roll his head in order to loosen his neck muscles and collect his thoughts. A glance at the tape in his hand and the folder he had grabbed before leaving nearly broke his control again, but he managed to center himself. Calling his fake smile back to life, Booth reached for the door knob and casually stalked into the interrogation room. _Let's try nice and gentle for a change_, he thought as he rounded the table.

"Good morning Mister Miller," he greeted the bodybuilder look-a-like.

"And who the hell might you be?" Booth's smile, together with his attempt at a friendly approach, vanished upon hearing Miller's threatening tone. Even stuck in an interrogation room, barely concealing his quivering nerves, the man had the guts to challenge Booth. _So much for being nice..._

"I'd watch your words if I were you, pal. I'm asking the questions here." Booth roughly pulled a chair back and lowered himself on it. Keeping firm eye-contact with the man across the table, he folded his hands and narrowed his eyes. "Let's skip the formalities, Albert. I have something that belongs to you." Booth placed his hand flat on the tape and slid it to the center of the table. "Do you recognize this?"

Miller leaned back, stretching his legs and setting one elbow on the back of the chair, seemingly adopting a relaxed stance. "I have never seen that tape before."

"Don't lie to me, Miller. We found it at your work station." Booth leaned forward, his gaze menacing and dark. "Better yet, we've got a witness who claims you were watching it." With interest Booth noted how Miller suddenly tensed. _Got you there, buddy_, he thought satisfied. "Care to tell me what you were watching, Miller?" Miller gave him a blank look. "You don't remember?" A negative shake of his head. Booth quietly snorted. _Typical response._

"Well, let me help you and your awfully short memory then. You were watching a tape of Dr. Brennan. No, not just watching it, you were playing it_in slow motion_." A shudder raced down Booth's spine as he nearly felt Brennan's shock ripple through the room, but he refused to give it another thought. He couldn't interrupt the interrogation now to go check on his partner. Not when he was on a roll and was slowly forcing Miller into a corner. Booth leaned across the table, accurately aware of how he was invading the other man's personal space. "You have no idea how dangerous I get when jerks like you stalk my partner," he said in a low voice before straightening again.

"Now that we have jogged your memory, why don't you tell me why you collected footage of Dr. Brennan and sold the tapes to whoever wanted them? And don't try to convince me this is the only tape you've got. I have evidence to prove you've sold more than one copy." Booth briefly flipped open the folder in front of him, pretending to study a piece of paper that contained the tape sales information. "Three tapes last week alone, to be precise." He lifted his head to look at Miller again. "What's the matter, big guy? Cat got your tongue?"

During the course of Booth's monologue, Miller's entire body had gone rigid. Utter disbelief, shock, horror, uneasiness, guilt...They each played over his face in turn. He opened his mouth, about to say something, when the shrill chirp of Booth's phone echoed through the room.

Booth stiffened. "Hold that thought." Flipping his phone open, not bothering to check caller ID this time, he planned on giving whoever was calling him a piece of his mind. But before he had a chance, a familiar male voice filled his ear with the good news he had been hoping for.

"It's alright, Booth. We've got him."

Six words, two sentences. It was unfathomable how much relief they caused to flood through Booth's body. Inwardly he sagged in gratefulness, but outwardly he remained stern and every bit hard-ass interrogator. He settled back in his chair as he responded in a neutral tone, "That's good.

"He's not making any sense, though," Hodgins continued. "He keeps saying 'Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth...suffer'." Booth remained poker-faced and made a non-committal sound, not willing to make Miller part of their conversation in any way. Hodgins took this as a sign to go on. "This means I was right, doesn't it? Zach was kidnapped by the same guy that attacked Angela. Why else would he combine your names with 'suffer'? The guy probably muttered it as he was moving Zach, assuming nobody could hear him."

Booth nodded, even though Hodgins couldn't see him. Zach had given them a clue as to who had taken him. You had to like the kid. "We'll discuss this later," Booth said. "Thanks for letting me know."

After that curt reply, Booth flipped his phone shut, thereby ending the call. He set his phone down on the table, staring intently at Miller, before getting to his feet and turning towards the two-way mirror. As a plan of action began to form in his head, Booth looked his reflection straight in the eye, fully aware Brennan was on the other side not missing a word he said. Though the tension in his shoulders had eased considerably the moment Hodgins had announced Zach was with them again, Booth was still unsettled. Miller wasn't exactly being cooperative and since Booth had neither the time, nor the desire to lose his temper and run the risk of being removed from the case, he had to find a different method to lure Miller into a confession. At the moment Booth could think of only one way effective enough to get the information he needed...and it wouldn't go down well with Brennan. He hoped that for once she would read him like an open book and would catch on to the apology he was trying to convey with a pleading look in her direction. Because of what he was about to do...Booth cleared his throat as he smoothed his tie. _She's going to kick my ass,_ flashed through his mind.

Pivoting on his heel, Booth slid his hands in his pockets and addressed Miller, "Do you have a girlfriend, Albert?"

Judging how Miller's eyebrows shot toward the ceiling and the several seconds it took him to reply, Booth's question obviously surprised him. "What does that have to do with this?" he said, gesturing at the tape still lying in the middle of the table.

"Just answer the question." Booth strolled over to Miller's side of the table. "Humor me, alright?"

"In that case, yeah, I have a girlfriend."

"Is she pretty?" Miller nodded. "Beautiful even?" Again Miller nodded. By now Booth had reached Miller's side. "Do you know who Angela Montenegro is?" Thanks to the two-way mirror, Booth could clearly see Miller's confusion.

"What has she got to do with my girl...with any of this?"

"So you know her?" Shaking his head and with his hands still in his pockets, Booth rocked back and forth on his heels. "I shouldn't be so surprised. I'm sure you've got her on tape as well, together with Dr. Brennan." _Time for some shock therapy._

Without any warning, Booth right hand shot out, grabbed the folder lying on the table next to the tape, and whipped it open. Another quick move and picture after picture was slammed down in front of Miller. Each snapshot showed some of Angela's bruises and wounds. Even though Booth had seen the content of the vanilla colored folder more times than he could count, the still-frames of bloody scratches, a cut lip, and numerous dark bruised still twisted his stomach. He drew in a deep breath, grabbed hold of the back of Miller's chair, and used it as support as he hovered next to the man's right ear.

"You take a good look at these. This is what could happen to your girlfriend. Your buddy could do this to her."

"My buddy?" Miller echoed.

"Give it up, Albie." _Way to go. Shorten his name and piss him off. That should do the trick. _"We've done a total background check on you, talked to your colleagues, searched your work station...and guess what we found out? Eight months ago your security badge "mysteriously" went missing. The strange thing is that it has been used regularly ever since." Booth let go of the chair and strolled back to his side of the table. "As was the case yesterday afternoon, when Dr. Brennan and I were at the Jeffersonian." He lifted his eyebrows high and stared at Miller as he continued, in a quiet voice, "You better start talking, pal, because I'm not fooling around here. You allowed access to the Jeffersonian to an unauthorized person. There's a lot more than your job on the line here."

Cocking his head, Booth watched all color drain from Miller's face. He nodded satisfied. It seemed like he was finally getting through to the few brain cells the big hunk of muscle possessed. "Let's start from the top, Albie. These," he gestured at the line of jarring photographs still lying on display, "are pictures of the injuries inflicted on Miss Montenegro. She was brutally attacked and nearly molested in the middle of a public square across the state line, in Maryland. We found evidence on the scene that ties her attack to the cold blooded murder on John Percy." He tossed a few shots of John's corpse in Albert's direction. "His brains were blown all over Dr. Brennan's patio by a sniper."

Miller gulped. Booth narrowed his eyes and felt adrenaline push through his veins. He was getting closer to a confession -- a very useful confession, he was sure of it. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, it dawned on him that once he went all the way and exposed the truth, he would have to act fast in order to avoid Brennan's wrath. Though very much aware of the hell he would have to pay, Booth didn't want to mess up this chance. It could very well be their best lead to the crazed psycho who was after him and his team. He drew in a deep breath and went in for the kill.

"And now he's got one of my squints."

Brennan's shock was so palpable Booth swore he felt it crashing into the back of his head like a freight train. _I'm dead..._

* * *

_Next time on __Strappado__...and you're going to love this one...some B&B time! Can I get a "Woo hoo"?_


	11. The Lead Sprinkler

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** At the risk of sounding like Janice on Friends -- Oh...My...God! When I updated last week, I had no idea it would cause such a flood of reviews! It really makes me wonder what you will make of this chapter...

Dear** Faux Maven**, the ever wise one, thank you for quelling my fears and nerves and assuring me there was no need to "overwrite" and instead trust my instincts. You have no idea how many valuable lessons you have already taught me. And on a random side-note...That comment you made about the ending after reading the first draft still puts an ear-to-ear grin on my face!

To everyone who reviewed chapter 10, both logged in users and "anonymous" reviewers, thank you for the support. You are all too kind!

* * *

**- XI -**

**-- ****THE LEAD SPRINKLER --**

_At first sight the Lead Sprinkler __looked like a Holy Water Sprinkler. Its workings were quite similar too. The Lead Sprinkler essentially was a ladle on the end of a handle. The torturer poured molten metals, boiling oil, boiling water, pitch or tar in the lower half, which then slowly slid to the sphere on the other side. The top half of the sphere was perforated and could be removed or reattached as the torturer wished._

_The victim was pinioned first before the torturer brought out the Lead Sprinkler. By shaking or flicking the device in the victim's direction, he was literally showered with the boiling hot contents of the Lead Sprinkler. This torture method was often used to end someone's life. A common and rather popular way of execution was pouring molten silver on the victim's eyes. Very painful and death eventually ensued._

_In the last chapter Booth provoked Brennan by withholding information about Zach's condition. Knowing Brennan, she won't easily let Booth off the hook. But who says Booth won't give her a hard time too? They end up arguing, throwing accusations at each other's heads, much like molten drops of boiling oil, until eventually the "death" of their partnership follows._

* * *

_**Friday November 30 - Hoover Building**__**, ground level - 12:59**_

One shove and the glass doors leading outside flew open. Three long strides and Booth was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Halting, he muttered unintelligible things about squints and their pigheadedness under his breath, all the while scanning his surroundings. No sign whatsoever of Brennan. Not on the sidewalk, not under the entrance canopy of the underground parking lot, not in between the scores of people milling about at the other side of the street.

"Damn it, Bones. Where the hell are you?" he mumbled, clearly irritated.

"Booth," a voice came from behind him.

When he turned, he found Brennan staring at him, arms crossed and a scowl which he knew he had caused on her face. Booth gritted his teeth and made sure he stared right back at her, fully intent on not allowing Brennan to walk all over him in her frustration. He might have lied to her, but he had had a good enough reason to...at least in his opinion.

When Brennan did nothing more than glare at him, Booth made a few tentative steps in her direction and said, "Do you really want to do this here?"

"Yes, I do. I'm tired of running away, Booth. I..." Brennan quickly looked away as if saying what was on her mind without having eye-contact with her partner would make things easier. But just as suddenly she seemed to find her nerve again and swiveled back. "You said we'd find a way to make this investigation work. How does not telling me about Zach's disappearance help us?"

"Bones," Booth began, but Brennan interrupted him.

"You had no right to keep information of that importance from me. I work with Zach. He's my friend. If he goes missing, I want to know about it. You just…" She shook her head. "You just had _no_ right, Booth."

Booth straightened. "I'm your partner. I had every right. "

"No, you didn't," she uttered, shaking her head again, but this time it was more a gesture out of disappointment than dismissal. Brennan quietly circled Booth and moved towards the parking lot entrance, leaving him to stare after her.

Booth grimaced. He hadn't said anything wrong, had he? He had every right, didn't he? He was her partner; it was his job to protect her, after all. Kneading his jaw muscles, Boot watched Brennan walk down the sidewalk and felt the guilt of his lie press down on him. His delaying of the truth might have given her a few more moments of peace, but the consequences weren't worth it. Lying to protect Brennan wasn't the way. He sighed and before he could stop himself, he found himself shouting after her, "It was all a bluff."

Brennan stopped dead in her tracks. Slowly she turned to look at him. "A bluff?" Disbelief was clearly written all over her face. "Are you telling me Zach never went missing?"

"No, Zach was gone, alright. He's fine now, though. That call I got was from Hodgins, saying they'd found him." Booth paused to take the time to clear his throat and put his hands in his pockets, as if he wanted to dramatize the already present heavy tension. "They found him in the woods behind Hodgins' house. Zach was tied to a tree, barely conscious...barely alive, actually."

Brennan's eyes first widened in surprise and shock and were then narrowed with suspicion and barely concealed anger. She retraced her steps until she was standing in front of Booth again. "It was _him_, wasn't it?" He nodded. Brennan briefly squeezed her eyes shut as she inhaled deeply. Her jaw muscles tightened and when her eyelids slid open again, every possible speck of inner turmoil she might be experiencing at that moment was wiped from her stare until only cutting edges of ice cold, barely controlled anger were left.

"All the more reason why you should have told me. If our killer took Zach, then you put me in danger by not providing me with necessary details." She arched an eyebrow. "Or were you going to handcuff me to you so you could keep an eye on me all day long?"

"It crossed my mind." Booth lifted his eyebrows in challenge when he caught a stifled grunt coming from Brennan. "So what if it did? Just looking out for you, Bones." Inwardly, Booth rolled his eyes. Exactly when had he decided he wasn't below working Brennan the way she worked him? Sighing, he gestured at nothing in particular. "He got to Angela, he got to Zach. I won't allow him to get to you." His voice became firmer. "He'll have to go through me to get to you because you're not leaving my side. Not now, not tomorrow, not _ever_ until that bastard is either behind bars or six feet deep."

He mentally kicked himself the second those words left his mouth. Why was it he only seemed to channel his most base nature, his most simplistic side also known as Caveman, whenever she was around? It was a compulsion, he grudgingly realized, and it was connected to the all-devouring feelings of lust and irritation he had begun associating with his partner's presence. Apparently this very Neanderthal-like character trait was as much a part of him as his thirst for justice and the courteous gentleman-like manners his mother had taught him. Booth's shoulders sagged perceptibly as his hands fell limply down his sides. He had let his heart rule over his head again. If there was any woman who prided herself on not needing a male protector, then it was Brennan, and he had yet again preferred to forget that particular quality.

Crossing her arms, Brennan looked exasperatedly at her partner. "Just tell me why you lied, Booth. I deserve that much." She paused long enough to scrutinize his face. "Was it because I didn't call you first? Because of the trouble I gave you when you wouldn't let me see Angela? Or was it because I didn't want you to attend John's funeral?"

"No, Bones." Booth firmly shook his head. "No, no and no. It wasn't because of any of the above. It was because..." Groaning in the back of his throat, Booth threw himself around and marched straight for the entrance doors.

"Booth," Brennan called after him, already in pursuit.

As if it cost him a more than considerable amount of effort, he halted briefly and without looking at her, finished what he was going to say in a loud and clear voice, "I didn't tell you straight away because it's you."

It took Brennan a moment to catch up, mentally as well as physically. Quickening her pace so she could keep up with him, she tried to make eye-contact with him. But Booth stared straight ahead, effortlessly pushing through the doors and weaving his way through the entrance hall. "Booth, I don't know..."

"-what that means. Yeah, I bet you don't," he sarcastically muttered as he kept on moving.

Brennan glanced ahead. They were approaching the elevators. Somehow she suspected the chance of finishing their conversation properly would dwindle to zero if Booth made it to his office. If they had been at the lab, she wouldn't have had any problem with demanding him to listen to her. But now they were in Booth's territory. They were in his "house", so to speak. The only way to grab Booth's attention was by thinking like him. Without any further thought she locked her hand around his upper arm and gave it a light jerk. The effect was immediate and exactly what she desired. Booth came to an abrupt stop, blocking the way, an obstacle in the middle of the hallway with no intention to move aside as long as she held him in a light, but strangely firm grip.

Brennan could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, despite the fact they had just been outside, but she didn't loosen her hold. Her hunch that a touch would get through to her partner had been correct. Body language might not be her forte, but she had picked up a thing or two thanks to her close observations of Booth. She would never be as touchy-feely as he, but...And exactly who was she trying to kid? If she had to be honest, she had to admit she was rather enjoying the feel of his flesh yielding beneath the firm pressure of her fingers. She reveled in how it molded to the shape of her hand. But what she liked most was Booth's warmth. Whenever their skin made contact, liquid fire shot through her. What was most disturbing was that she actually craved this heat -- its complexity, its consequences...its beauty.

Hesitantly Brennan let her hand slip down his arm until it was hanging at her side. "Don't walk away from me, Booth. I need an explanation."

Booth pivoted until he was fully facing her. When he leaned forward, Brennan stood her ground. Quietly, close to a murmur, Booth spoke to her, "I meant exactly what I said. I lied to you because it's you. I just... I just couldn't bear seeing you get hurt again, Bones." He breathed in deep, carefully choosing his next words. "I care about you...a lot. More than I probably should. I wanted to spare you the agony of Zach's disappearance until I had some good news to go along with it. That's why I waited. That's why I convinced myself I had the right to keep you in the dark." He straightened, and in a tone that left no room for discussion, "Because I care."

Brennan stared at him, baffled. Dozens of thoughts, some coherent some not, flew and bounced through her mind, but in the end only one was voiced. "I understand."

"You do?" Booth replied, quirking an eyebrow.

She nodded. "But that doesn't mean I approve of what you did. You lied, Booth, period."

"I did, but I'm not going to apologize for it. It was in your best interest."

Brennan regarded him for a few silent moments, perplexed, stunned, all trace of ice cold anger vanished. Instead a mix of curiosity and suspicion vacated her eyes. "Where do you draw the line, Booth?" she asked. "Do you often lie to me? Is it a conscious choice you make or does it come naturally? And do you lie to everybody or just to me?"

"Bones, damn it. You know damn well it's nothing like that."

His rough and unexpectedly loud growl silenced Brennan. It surprised Booth too, but Brennan should have seen it coming. She was getting to him. God, how she was getting to him...Accusation after accusation was thrown at him, guilt was being rubbed into his skin until he smelled of lies, deceit and cowardice. The number of people mouthing a multitude of swear-words in their direction since they were still blocking the entrance to one of the elevators weren't exactly helping him center himself or soften his treatment of Brennan's contemptuous questions. Clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides, Booth fought for focus as he tried to come up with something intelligent to say next. He had managed to turn aside Brennan's temporary tirade; now he had to figure out how to silence her ridiculous accusations that he lied his way through their partnership. But before he could formulate a more eloquent reply than a clipped curse, Brennan hurled a softly spoken yet infuriating string of words at him.

"John would have never lied to me."

Booth bristled. "You only saw him three times a week."

"The specific number of our meetings is irrelevant," Brennan waved away the words clearly spoken in outrage. "By the third date I knew John would never stab me in the back."

"Just like I never would." Booth threw his hands in the air to show his despair about not getting his point across. "Yes, I lied, but I did it to spare your feelings. You've been through enough already, Bones." The harsh lines in his face softened briefly as his eyes roamed over her. Then he hardened again. "So don't even dare comparing me to a guy you saw three times a week. On fixed nights even."

Brennan felt like mimicking Booth's theatrical hand gestures to express her utter frustration. "What is it with you, Booth? Why do you keep comparing yourself to John? I told you, you don't have to compete with him!" She punctuated her words with few menacing steps in his direction, until they were but a breath apart.

Booth glowered at her, unfazed. But he couldn't stop his gaze from quickly flicking to Brennan's mouth. There was something about her lips when she pinched them like that. It awakened an odd desire in him to tear and pull at them until they were back to their usual plumpness. But he quelled the temptation the second it intensified too much to his taste. Oblivious to the spectators who had gathered around them, he accused Brennan, "You didn't care about him, Bones. You used John for sex and that's it."

"No, I did _not_..."

"Do I have to point out the 'fixed nights' again?"

Brennan's hands itched to give him and his ego a good shove. Instead she snapped at him, "Takes one to know one."

Upon hearing Brennan's cryptic retort, Booth lifted his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"Samantha," Brennan curtly replied, suddenly in possession of pure calm and equilibrium. "You used her."

He silently stared at her before he turned away. "Maybe I did."

Brennan almost didn't catch his mumbling, but because she did, she quickly hurried after him. They pushed through the throngs of people who gathered around them to cheer on their more than intriguing argument. They struggled to break through the mass of people that streamed from the elevator that happened to arrive at that moment, swimming upstream as if they were salmon. Brennan easily ignored the interest they had piqued in the surrounding crowd and was entirely concentrated on the tall man shouldering his way past colleagues and strangers.

"Booth, damn it. Get back here," she almost hissed.

It weren't so much her words as her actions that literally pulled him back to face her. Her hand shot out, clamped down on his shoulder, and roughly spun him around. Whatever she had planned on saying, it completely escaped her the second she met his eyes. Such irritation, such distress...such _passion_ she perceived in them. It frightened her, confused her. And strangely enough it turned her on.

Her breath quickened as a mist of longing rolled over Booth's face, inspiring his pupils to dilate and his lungs to draw in a sharp breath. His gaze shot down to her mouth when he caught an unconscious flick of her tongue across her lips to wet them, as if Brennan was anticipating what had been playing on Booth's mind for quite some time now. When he looked up again, he knew she could read his longing, despite her sometimes uncanny ability to be dense. She could see right into the craving part of his soul and to his amazement she bared a similar part of herself to him. It was all the encouragement he needed. In just a few seconds the restraints that had curbed the frighteningly overwhelming longing were incinerated.

Screw his reputation as successful agent. No, screw her reputation as hard-ass scientist. In fact, screw both of their reputations. Or better yet, screw _her_. Mentally grinning a sinful smile, Booth threw all caution to the wind. Right in front of the elevators, for all to see, he gave in to his inner Caveman. He grabbed her face, twined his fingers through her hair, and yanked her towards him. His mouth descended upon hers before the quiet gasp in surprise left her. He kissed her hard and deep, pouring all of his irritation, all of his fears, all of his longing into her. He kissed and kissed her, ravaging her lips, scraping them with his teeth, soothing the flesh with his tongue afterwards.

And wonder above wonder, she kissed him back with the same fervor. Booth groaned, inhaling her scent, tasting her moans of pleasure. Every hair on his body stood on end with delicious tension. If kissing her felt this good, the rest she had to offer would surely knock him out cold. The mere thought of going beyond just kissing made him tremble and shake with need. So many times she had been in danger; so many times he had nearly lost her. Their current situation was no different. She could slip away from him in the very second he let his guard down. Desperation fought its way through Booth's body and drowned his already tidal need in a veil of illogical fear. Closer, he had to get closer to her and _feel_ her. Make sure she was real and alive and within his grasp.

Brennan seemed like-minded because when Booth moved forward to glue his body to hers, she gripped the top of his jacket lapels in a hold tight enough to drain all blood from her hands. Both sighed in relief at the more than arousing and yet reassuring full bodily contact. Booth untangled one of his hands and briefly left the toe-curling warmth of her hair to dryly punch the button to call for the elevator. The doors opened promptly and Booth, still fully engaged in devouring his partner in every way he had imagined in the past two years, stumbled backwards, dragging Brennan with him.

It wasn't until they were halfway up to the seventh floor that they broke apart. Hands still in Brennan's hair, his eyes fighting for focus, Booth breathed rapidly. He swallowed, straightened and leaned a bit back, but without stepping away as much as an inch. Brennan stared at him, lips swollen, equally short breathed.

"That one's definitely on top of the list," Booth murmured.

"What list?"

"The 'How to Silence Bones Effectively' list."

* * *

_I bet you didn't see that one coming..._


	12. La Cantarella

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** °comes strutting in wearing a lab coat she borrowed from Faux Maven° Let's get squinty, people! I am now the living proof that a total non-squint (I am not exaggerating here. Chemistry and physics were only attractive because I had to memorize tons of stuff...and I happen to like memorizing and using my brain.) can efficiently process information and use it as writing material. So to all my fellow authors out there, the "I'm not a squint" excuse is no longer valid! lol ;)

**Faux Maven**, I am still in awe over how fast we wrapped this chapter up. It took less than two days to actually write and beta it several times. We so rock, ha! I can hardly wait to see if we'll do the same terrific job on chapter 13. Thanks for helping me out with all the research and for boosting my confidence when I needed a bit of a push. I couldn't have obtained my degree of "Mini-Squint" without you!

As for everyone who reviewed chapter 11 and who took the time to put me or my story on their list or who went to take a look at my other stories -- I believe a sincere thank you is in order. Your comments flatter me and keep me writing.

Also a thank you to **Amasayda**. If it hadn't been for you, I would have thought of this chapter!

* * *

**- XII -**

**-- LA CANTARELLA --**

_In the 15th and 16th century during the Renaissance, the family of Borgia was notorious throughout Italy. Cesare Borgia and Lucrezia Borgia were the two most famous members of this family__ which was widely known, and often admired, for its murder-poison-plots. They were the illegitimate son and daughter of Rodrigo Lenzuoli Borgia who was better known as Pope Alexander VI from 1492 until his death in 1503. The Borgias are thought to be 'history's first criminal family' and a forerunner to the Italian Mafia._

_The Borgias __were a very famous family as can be judged from the number of books, movies and references to them in popular culture. There is a currently ongoing graphical novel series about the drama within the Borgia family called __Cantarella__ which is being created by You Higuri. A famous quote by Harry Lime, a character of Orson Welles' novel __The Third Man__, goes: "__Remember what the fella said: in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock." And finally, who can forget the reference to the Borgias in the __Godfather III__ when Michael Corleone is in the Vatican attempting to receive gratification from the Pope on a business deal owned by the Catholic Church?_

_The title of this chapter, 'La Cantarella', means 'the poison of the Borgias'. It refers to a secret poison used by the Borgia family, the exact composition of which remains unknown till this day. Some say it's probably a mixture of subacetate of copper, arsenic and crude phosphorus. Others say it was prepared by first killing a hog with arsenic. Its abdomen was opened and was sprinkled with more poisonous powder. Then they left the animal to putrefy. The juices which trickled from the decaying corpse were collected and evaporated until only dry powder remained. La Cantarella refers to this particular powder._

_I picked this title out of the short list of suggestions Faux Maven emailed me because the secretive poisonous ways of the Borgias reminded me of Madman's next move. He succeeds at poisoning the fourth target on his list and does so in a most devious way, none of the characters (nor you as a reader, for that matter) could have foreseen._

* * *

_**Friday N**__**ovember 30 - Jeffersonian - 14:28**_

"Is that all we've got?"

Booth gave a confirming nod. "I collected every piece of evidence, from cotton swabs to the Russian SV-99 rifle, and arranged for it to be transported to the Jeffersonian. What we've got here," he made a sweeping gesture from left to right at the three boxes standing neatly beside each other on top of one of the tables in Cam's personal examination room, "is all we have to catch the son of a bitch who's after us."

Hodgins pinched his lips into a thin grim line upon hearing Booth's reply to his question. "We won't let you down, Booth. We want to nail this guy's ass as much as you do."

Hodgins couldn't help but glance at Angela as he spoke. She was wedged in between Booth and Brennan at the other side of the table, spine stiff, arms crossed and head held up high despite her still healing injuries. Her bruises had turned all colors of the rainbow in the first days after the attack but had almost faded by now. The vicious drag marks on her chest were a different story. They had been deeper than they first seemed and took considerably longer to heal. It hurt Hodgins to see the angry red marks mar the beauty of Angela's delicate skin. But proud as she was, Angela was unwilling to let a few scratches rule her life. She plainly refused to wear turtle necks, scarves or anything else to cover up.

Hodgins' face softened while gazing at Angela. With a backbone made out of steel and a master at wielding stiletto shoes, Angela was a woman to be reckoned with. His eyes drifted to the vacant spot beside him on his and Cam's side of the table. As was Zach. Against all expectations the young genius had fought a fierce battle for consciousness and hadn't given up hope until Hodgins and Angela had come to rescue him. Zach's display of courage and strength filled Hodgins with pride...and triggered an outrage blistering and poisonous unlike any anger the entomologist had ever dealt with. It left him breathless and intensified the headache he had developed after leaving Zach at the hospital. If it wasn't for a lunatic who believed he had a license to torture and kill them, and a defective alarm system that had failed to protect Hodgins' property, Zach would have never ended up in the emergency department, barely breathing, shivering in shock.

"We'll do whatever we can, Seeley. If there's a clue hidden in one of these boxes, in one of these evidence bags, we'll find it."

When Cam's voice oozing with confidence resounded through the examination room, Hodgins jerked up his head and locked onto the pathologist's determined stance. As confident as Cam sounded, she hadn't quite managed to wipe all worry from her eyes. Perhaps her team regularly drove her up the walls, but she had come to respect and like them all. Angela's attack hadn't gone down well with her and Zach's kidnapping really pissed her off. Nobody touched her team; anybody trying to harm them would have to face her Bronx-born method of dealing with trouble. Hodgins mentally nodded approvingly. The team might have lost the advantage of working with a first class archeologist when Dr. Goodman left, but they had gained a very powerful ally in the fight for justice.

"But I can't help but wonder why the FBI forensics team would willingly give up their evidence," Cam asked, tilting her head and subjecting Booth to a questioning stare.

Booth only shrugged. "It's not like you haven't gone over FBI lab findings before. They've had enough time to come up with something useful. Now it's your turn." He quickly looked at Brennan. "Besides, if Bones here went to check up on them one more time, I would have had some serious explaining to do." To Hodgins' surprise Brennan didn't bother looking up from her meticulous examination of the cardboard evidence boxes. A small frown wrinkled his forehead. What was up with Brennan? Was she as shocked as he was about Zach's ordeal?

Booth, seemingly oblivious to his partner's lack of reaction, went on, "But that doesn't mean you're officially assigned to these cases. I could only borrow the evidence for a couple of hours. FBI squints want everything back by 18:00 so I suggest you get started."

Hodgins' hand shot out to touch the box of evidence on the utmost right. "I call dibs on the evidence from Zach's case."

"I'll work on blood and tissue samples," Cam offered.

In the silence that followed Cam's words, everyone turned to Brennan who remained uncharacteristically quiet. Eventually, after she suddenly tensed and threw a warning look at Booth, she said, "I'll see if I can find anything on the rifle and the bullet we retrieved."

Hodgins narrowed his eyes. Just before Brennan had stiffened, he had caught Booth's arm move ever so subtly. With the examination table and Angela covering his actions, Hodgins could only presume the agent had lifted his arm behind Angela and reached over to gently nudge Brennan. Something was definitely going on between these two, something different than before. Whatever it was specifically...Hodgins shook his head. It didn't matter at the moment. Personal relationships were of no importance when a murderer was on the loose.

"What do you want me to do, Booth?" Angela asked.

"I'd like you to try and reconstruct all of the attacks on the Angelator. This guy is methodical. I want to study his working method, see if there is a pattern. Because if there is one and we discover it, he loses the element of surprise. We can stop him if he becomes predictable." Looking around, Booth saw the remainder of his team nod in agreement. "Great," he said, firmly clapping his hands, "Let's get a move on then. Work your magic, squints."

--&---

_**Friday N**__**ovember 30 - Jeffersonian - 15:08**_

Several pieces of rope, some with ragged ends, some still as intact as if they had never been wound around an arm or leg, lay neatly rolled up inside a see-through plastic evidence bag. Together with a torn leaf from a Muhlenberg oak, a collection of cotton swabs and hair follicles that currently resided at Cam's work station, and a spoonful of gravel, they formed the evidence of Zach's kidnapping. Wearily, Hodgins eyed the largest hermetically sealed bag containing the ropes that had held Zach captive. Filthy, stained with forest soil and blood and without a doubt Zach's cold sweat, they rested on the smooth and cold surface of the table, next to the oak leaf Hodgins had previously been staring at.

Hesitantly Hodgins' hand hovered over the evidence bag. He had refrained from examining the ropes on purpose. Up until roughly three hours ago they had been drawn tight around Zach's body strapping him painfully to a thick tree trunk. The agony and disbelief that had stormed through Hodgins the minute he had stumbled across his friend had made his stomach turn...and it still did. Waves of nausea washed over him and he had to swallow repeatedly to clear the lump that had formed in his throat. Pulling and tugging in desperation, he had torn and almost gnawed the ropes that bound Zach. It had taken Hodgins nearly ten minutes -- an eternity -- to loosen all the knots and set his friend free. And now he had to touch those horrific cotton restraints again in the hopes of finding useful particles on them.

Drawing in a deep breath to muster some courage, he lowered his hand to pick up the bag...and instead had to grab the edge of the table in a tight grip. For the briefest of moments the world madly spun around in a whirlwind of blurry colors. It took a shake of his head, a couple of muttered curses, and all of his will to battle back the bile rising in his throat and to ignore the stabbing pains tearing his stomach to shreds. As if the mental torment of remembering what had happened to Angela and Zach wasn't enough, his body was acting up too. The stress and anguish were getting to him and were getting to him good. Soon there would be nothing left but frayed nerves and dark memories if he didn't move and find something that would help them catch their killer.

"How's it going, Hodgins? Found anything yet?"

When he turned to the right, Hodgins saw Booth standing a bit further along, hands in pockets and eyebrows slightly raised. "I was just about to examine the ropes." As inconspicuously as possible, Hodgins let go of the table edge he had been clinging to and motioned for Booth to come closer.

"I've only taken a look at the leaf and gravel I found. The leaf is from a _Quercus muehlenbergii_, a Muhlenberg's oak, a type of tree I happen to have a few of on my property. I knew exactly where to look because of the pupae attached to the leaf. It was an_ Erynnis horatius_, Horace's Duskywings, a skipper that likes to use oak trees for hosts." Holding up the leaf with a hand clad in latex, Hodgins examined the pupae, willing his shaking hand to steady. "It's a fascinating little creature, to be honest. It's part of the_ Hesperiida_ family which means it's closely related to the true butterflies." He cast Booth a sideway glance and caught the subtle lifting of an eyebrow. "But I guess that's of no importance. What matters is that this leaf and this pupae led us straight to Zach."

Hodgins stepped back and moved down the table to where a Petri dish with a sample of gravel was waiting. With one eyebrow still arched high, Booth followed him.

"I collected this on my driveway. It's rather common gravel, sold throughout the States. It's used for driveways by thousands of typical all-American families." He shook his head, both to clear the fog that had settled in his mind and to express the hopelessness of using it to track down the killer. "I reckon our guy left it behind when he sped off after he had tied up Zach and left him to die." Anger rang clearly in Hodgins voice as he bit out the last words. "There were other particles mixed with the gravel. I'm having the computer analyze them as we speak." He glanced at Booth who by now had crossed his arms and was nodding thoughtfully. "How are the others doing?"

"Cam compared the blood covering Zach's robot with the scrapings we got from under Angela's nails. They're a match, just as we expected. We only need a different DNA sample to match them to if we want to get an ID on our killer. Bones is taking the rifle apart. I offered my help because of...you know...my expertise, but she wanted to work alone." Booth tried to muster a smile but the result was a rather forced grimace. "Angela is busy with reconstructing the attacks. I'll be going over them when I get back."

"Where are you going?"

"When you and Angela were at the hospital with Zach, I questioned a guy who made some money off of selling tapes of Bones to the highest bidder. I think our killer was one of his clients. I'm going to check out the drop off point, see if I can find any clues."

"Good luck with that."

Booth nodded his thanks. "I won't be long. When I get back, I'll probably have to take the evidence back to the FBI lab first."

"I'll make sure to have it all processed by then," Hodgins replied as he moved back to once more study the pupae. Booth nodded again and turned to leave. "Booth," Hodgins called after the agent without looking up. "Be careful, alright?" From the corner of his eye, he caught a quick wave of Booth's hand, signaling his affirmation.

Sighing, Hodgins threw a glance at the computer still analyzing the gravel, a frown creasing his forehead. Why were the numbers on the computer screen dancing? He quickly rubbed his eyes, but the numbers stayed blurry. The edges of his vision were blurry too as if he was looking at the world through a rain-streaked window. Pulling his shoulders back and straightening to his full height, Hodgins blinked several times and ignored the spikes of nausea poking and prodding his stomach.

His hand shook as he reached for the evidence bag containing the ropes. Carefully he opened it and almost immediately took a step back in disgust. The pieces of rope he pulled out of the plastic bag smelled as if they had been wrapped around a decomposing body for several months. Hodgins' face contorted as he breathed in the heavy, sour odor. No, that wasn't decomposing flesh he smelled. It was rotten eggs -- pure, rotten-to-the-core eggs with a touch of garlic to make the horrific smell all the more unsettling.

What was intriguing was that the rope actually looked as bad as it smelled. The original plain white color was completely gone; now it was a sickly brown. But not all of the pieces had changed color. Hodgins' frown deepened upon noticing this particular fact. Only a few pieces had turned brown; most were still as plain as before. Suddenly his eyes widened in understanding and he began drawing in short, rasping breaths. Clutching a length of revoltingly smelling rope, he lifted his other hand that was shaking uncontrollably. His eyes frantically darted back and forth.

Nausea, headache, abdominal pain, blurred vision, trembling hands, shortness of breath...and all at the same time. This couldn't be a coincidence. In fact, these symptoms pointed to something very specific...

_Shit._

--&--

_**Friday N**__**ovember 30 - Jeffersonian - 15:44**_

"Angela?"

The last time Hodgins had heard his voice vibrate with such emotion, that it had been filled with such anguish and pain, had been when he had confessed to Angela his inability to sleep peacefully after the Gravedigger ordeal. But now it wasn't fear that caused his muscles to clench or his gut to swirl in a most sickening manner. It was the poison happily swimming in his bloodstream that was the culprit.

He grabbed the doorframe, knuckles white, and perspiration dripping down his forehead and temples. His knees shook and nearly buckled, as he surveyed the room through the haze that obscured his vision. Every breath cost him a tremendous effort. Every gasp for air resounded like a whip of wind in his ears. He felt the venom invading his organs making him ill from the inside out and he was powerless to stop it.

"Angela," he repeated, weaker this time. Still no answer. Wheezing from a lack of air, Hodgins clutched his stomach when it violently cramped. He staggered forward, stumbled across the room towards the Angelator in the hope Angela was hiding there. No such luck. All that precious energy he had wasted to cross a room when the person he was looking for, probably his only means of rescue, was nowhere to be seen. Another wave of nausea crashed into him, one so unsettling and damaging Hodgins gasped loudly and curled his fingers around the edge of the Angelator. Because of his muffled cry of pain, he hardly caught the sharp intake of breath behind him.

"Jack?"

The relief that shot through him made him forget about the spasms for a moment or two. "Angela," he breathed. Hodgins heard rather than saw her running towards him. She slid an arm around his waist and pulled one of his arms around her shoulder to support him. Gratefully he leaned against her, moaning in pain. "Promise me you won't touch the ropes Zach was tied with," he whispered.

"Why not?" she asked, already steering them towards the door and across the threshold.

"They're drenched in pesticide. Parathion to be exact." He paused to drag in a deep breath. "It turns brown when exposed to sunlight and smells like hell. It was developed by IG Farben in the 1940s. Dr. Gerhard Schrader was the inventor, I believe. Parathion was marketed worldwide after World War II under different brand names. E605 was the most common German brand name. E stands for 'Entwicklungsnummer', not for-"

"Jack, stop talking," Angela ordered him. "Save your strength."

Before Hodgins could reply, he heard two pairs of feet come rushing towards them. With difficulty he lifted his head and stared at the blurred faces of Brennan and Cam. They both looked alarmed, _very_ alarmed. Well, they should be. He had succeeded at rubbing poisonous pesticide into his skin when he had untied Zach. If he wasn't treated within the next hour, if he didn't get an antidote into his system in time, this could end badly for him..._very_ badly...the dead kind of 'badly'. Hoping it would shake his friends out of their momentary paralysis, Hodgins squinted at Brennan and Cam and muttered a clipped explanation, "Parathion. Pesticide."

Their eyes widened in horror. In no time Hodgins was leaning heavily on Angela's and Cam's shoulders as they maneuvered him out of the lab and across the parking lot. He had never before in his life been more grateful to see a car than he was now. Quickly his companions seated him in the back of Brennan's silver car. Hodgins was vaguely aware of Cam circling the vehicle and sitting down in the passenger seat and of Angela standing by his side of the car, probably intending on sliding into the back together with him. But strangely enough she refrained from getting in, preferred to stay outside far away from him. Hodgins groaned and fought to stay conscious for just a few more moments, just long enough to ask Angela what the hell was taking her so long.

It was in the middle of that struggle that he heard Angela's shout filled with impatience, fear and a hint of hysteria. "Brennan, what's taking you so long? Get over here, _now_!"

Hodgins cracked a small smile. Obviously Angela cared tremendously for him. But his smile vanished into thin air when he caught Brennan's reply just before he sank into oblivion. Her answer was nowhere near full of the rationality she held in such high regard. In fact, it was nowhere near being calm though she did try to mask her feelings. Her voice was brittle, terror evident in every syllable she pronounced. It stilled his heart, chilled his bones, stabbed his gut with a dagger as sharp as the poison currently circulating his body. In short, it terrified him.

"Why is Booth's car still here?"

* * *

_Me? A Cliffie Queen? __Now why would you think such a thing?? lol_


	13. Peine forte et dure

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I'm sure you guys are aware it's Valentine's Day today. So, as an answer to this horrible and dreadful holiday, I am publishing a nice and dark chapter. Take that stupid Valentine's Day! lol

To those who reviewed chapter 12, thank you. To the lurkers who haven't yet mustered the courage to review and to those who simply refuse to review, thanks anyway for reading.

This time it isn't just me who should thank **Faux Maven**. If it had been left up to teeny tiny me, we would be dining on Booth fillet by the end of the chapter. It's thanks to **Faux Maven** that I came up with a more sophisticated way for Madman to deal with Booth. So like I said, we should all thank FM. I believe everything from a pat on the back and a round of applause to gift certificates and worshipping on bare knees is acceptable. ;)

* * *

**- XIII -**

**-- PEINE FORTE ET DURE**** --**

_'Peine forte et dure' is French for 'hard and forceful punishment'. The common law legal system used this torture method to make a defendant co-operate, to make him enter a plea. If the defendant stood mute, he denied his guilt and could not be tried. The common law courts only wanted to judge people who sought judgment__. They considered themselves not to have jurisdiction over an individual until he had entered a plea. In the 18th century, standing mute was the equivalent of pleading guilty, which differs from common law nowadays where standing mute means 'not guilty until proven otherwise'. _

_Back in the 13th century, up until the 18th century when Peine forte et dure was abolished, a plea was elicited from a defendant by initially imprisoning and starving him until he submitted. In the 15th century, they added pressing by heavy weights to the 'peine'. Heavier and heavier stones were placed upon the defendant's chest until he gave in...or until the weight became too much to bear and condemned the defendant to fatal suffocation._

_The Roman Catholic martyr Saint Margaret Clitherow was pressed to death on March 25, 1586 because she refused to plead guilty to the charge of having hidden Catholic (then outlawed) priests in her home. In American history Giles Corey was the only known executee of Peine forte et dure. He was pressed to death on September 19, 1692 during the Salem witch trials. His last words as he was being pressed to death were, according to legend: "More weight."_

_As you all might have guessed from the last chapter, Madman __is at the Jeffersonian and has declared Booth a target. The torture he has in mind for Booth is a perfect example of 'hard and forceful punishment'. Because, according to Madman, Booth has never pleaded guilty to his "crime" of rescuing Brennan, he publicly subjects Booth to Peine forte et dure. An ingenious system that resembles the aforementioned heavy weights is used to crush the life, but not a confession, out of Booth._

* * *

_**November 30 - **__**Underground parking at the Jeffersonian - 15:10**_

_Three down, three more to go and then I'll have her again._

He smiled as he pushed back the sleeve of his dark blue Gucci suit to check his silver Rolex. 15:10. If everything was going according to plan, it wouldn't be long before four were down and he only had to get rid of two more. An ingenious, well-placed plastic bomb would take out the tall dark-haired woman who had so recently joined the group and who he would have taken a liking to if his heart hadn't already been stolen by Brennan -- Camille he believed her name was. She would be blown to pieces the second he activated the detonator -- which he would only do if he felt like amusing himself. It was a far cry from being subtle, but if he had to be honest, he'd lovingly sacrifice a bit of finesse if it could speed things up. He was getting tired of all the waiting. He wanted Brennan and he wanted her _now_. But for that to be possible, he would first have to dispose of the slender woman who claimed to be Brennan's superior before he could move on to the last target: her self-appointed body-guard, her second shadow, also known as 'the Bastard'.

Closing his eyes, he shuddered in delight. After all this time he would finally get his revenge. And he would achieve it in a most pleasurable way. He would make sure Brennan and the survivors of her team -- as well as the entire world, for that matter -- would know he couldn't be trifled with. One wrong move to thwart him and he'd rain down terror and pain.

A downward glimpse caused the corners of his mouth to curl. He would complete his master plan in the upcoming hour and he would do it in style. The dark blue Gucci suit cut to fit him like a glove, light blue dress shirt underneath, and a plain grey tie to complete the picture: he had donned his best clothes and had taken one of the most sophisticated looking cars he owned to support his image of wealthy heir looking to become a Jeffersonian benefactor.

If they had been aware of the fact that he had already been a benefactor and had been banned from their exclusive group thanks to his merry kidnapping of one of the most valuable and esteemed Jeffersonian scientists, then they would have never granted him access to the underground parking lot. The Bastard just needed to come out now before one of the security guards began asking annoying questions. He wondered how long a stranger sitting in his car checking his watch every three minutes could go unnoticed. Not too long, he assumed.

He frowned as he smoothed down his tie and checked the time again. 15:16. Booth was taking longer than expected, longer than he was willing to wait. Dropping off three evidence boxes couldn't take _that_ much time, could it? Disgruntled, he shifted around in his seat. He knew he couldn't very well enter the lab unnoticed to drag the Bastard out by his ear, but the waiting was killing him. Was it that much to ask for him to be on time for a bit of torture?

Curt and steadfast the knuckles of one hand rapped on the refined leather of the steering wheel of the silver Volvo S60 as he scowled at his Rolex. Why was it only 15:18? For crying out loud, time seemed to creep by as slowly as a caterpillar on a stick! The unusual comparison caused him to smile again. Caterpillars reminded him of his latest victim, the curly-haired rich guy. What a challenge it had been to crack his security system and drive up his driveway as if he owned the place. Nobody had heard a thing when he snuck into that skinny kid's apartment. Capturing the damn kid had proven more difficult than expected, but in the end it had only taken a nice push against the bookcase to knock him out cold. Dragging the weird kid across the driveway and lawn and through the woods hadn't been exactly a piece of cake, but the result had been a pleasure to behold. Never had he tied tighter knots, never had he felt so in control and so...giddy.

A sound of satisfaction and amusement, something in between a cough and a chuckle, escaped him. 'Giddy' was such a childish word, but it quite accurately described the excitement that had coursed through his body as he had neatly wrapped up the skinny kid and had carefully poured Parathion onto the ropes without touching any exposed skin. He had created a masterpiece and had prepared the trap for his next target in the process. Even now he could hardly stop himself from grinning from ear to ear in sheer delight.

He sighed. 15:20. This was getting pathetic. About to sigh again, instead a snort escaped him as disgust raced through his veins at the thought of what Booth was probably doing at the moment, while he was wasting his time in the cold underground parking lot. He bet they were kissing again. No, not kissing. The Bastard and his precious Brennan hadn't been kissing; they had been consuming each other. _Consuming_, for fuck's sake, and lapping at each other as if there would be no tomorrow! In front of everybody -- _en plein public _-- as if they didn't give a damn about what people would say, they had basically devoured each other, barely holding back moans and slurping sounds.

He had to stifle a groan as he imagined what people would say if they saw him instead of the Bastard walk around with Brennan in the very, very near future. They would whisper he was together with Miss Horny who didn't mind going at it like an animal in heat with her stupid partner in front of the whole wide world! Just the memory of their grunts and ragged breathing unsettled him. Why the hell had he gotten curious enough to follow them when they had gone back inside the Hoover Building? He would have saved himself the most revolting picture of the two of them jumping each other if he had just stayed outside and had waited. His skin was still crawling three hours later.

He bit off a grunt and smoothed down his tie. The nerve! The audacity! The...the...He had to hand it to the Bastard. The guy sure had balls, though that wouldn't matter once he got his hands on him. Just then, a sudden and almost feral grin appeared on his face as he caught sight of Booth striding across the parking lot.

_Hello, look who finally decided to show up. Perfect._

He quickly checked his impeccable suit for creases or anything else that might ruin his perfect appearance before he slid out of his car, buttoned his jacket, and started toward Booth. Carefully making sure he was looking anywhere but at the agent, he brushed past him. Behind him he heard Booth electronically open his car...and smiled when a note of hesitation crept into the echo of Booth's steps. The moment a second bleat sounded in the garage, he knew that whatever he did next he couldn't look over his shoulder, not even for the briefest glimpse. It was what had given him away last time and he really didn't need the Bastard to chase him now. Booth cautiously tagging him, without a doubt wondering why a complete stranger looked so familiar, exactly like the agent was doing now, was what fit into his plan.

As if he hadn't a care in the world, he steered for the elevator and casually stepped in. But he made sure he kept his back to the parking lot and that the elevator doors closed just in time so Booth didn't have a chance to ride to street level together with him. Once he was on ground level again, he adjusted his pace so Booth would glimpse a part of his back right before he slipped inside the Jeffersonian museum.

And guess what -- it went exactly as planned! He had barely purchased a ticket for some kind of exotic exhibit about a primitive African tribe when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Anger and disgust coiled in his stomach and the corners of his lips twitched. The Bastard was definitely close. His body only convulsed this drastically in disgust when the agent was near. He slid one hand in the pocket of his pants and began a seemingly relaxed tour of the exhibit. The tribal masks didn't intrigue him. In fact, he didn't give a rat's ass about the tribe's 'out of the ordinary' rituals. Only Booth and the Egyptian exhibit being prepared in a pair of rooms still closed for the public interested him.

Footsteps sounded behind him. An image of Booth tailing him and studying his back popped into his head. He could describe in detail the quizzical look Booth had to be wearing right now. The agent probably tilted his head to the left as he kept his eyes steady on his back. Because of his fast pace, Booth's unbuttoned, black suit coat would be pushed back revealing an impeccable white dress shirt underneath with a vibrant tie on top. Yes, he could picture his victim perfectly, could draw an immaculate portrait of him in his mind, thanks to all those endless hours of observation and careful note taking. If he knew his victim well, then the Bastard would address him any minute...

"Sir?"

He smiled and almost rolled his eyes. _So predictable..._

Undisturbed, conveniently deaf, he continued his leisurely walk. He passed more masks, more tribal weapons, even a primitive self-built canoe. He didn't even favor them with a glance. All he was focused on was the exhibit rooms around the corner, the entrance blocked by a thick, red velvet rope.

"Sir?"

This time Booth's voice carried a note of hesitance and curiosity. He had without a doubt piqued the FBI Agent's interest, but so far Booth hadn't dared to touch or stop him. The crowd milling around them was probably why. Well, luckily for the Bastard, he didn't want witnesses either. What he was about to do needed complete silence and concentration. The public wouldn't be allowed to see his masterpiece before it was ready to be revealed.

He rounded the corner and with almost fluid grace he slipped underneath the red velvet rope, Booth close on his heels. It took him maybe five seconds to scan the place and cross over to the next room. He quickly surveyed the second exhibit room and locked onto his target in the dim light that bathed several exhibit cases, a number of sealed wooden crates, and one or two already opened, half unpacked crates. There it was -- a glass exhibit case for a royal mummy king, nearly identical in design to the display case of the mummy of Tutankhamun -- King Tut -- currently residing in the antechamber of his tomb in Luxor. A rectangle of glass of about six and a half feet long and about three feet wide, and built on a steel base, it was a perfect fit for the Bastard. He bared his teeth in a predatory grin. Oh, he was going to have so much fun playing around with it. The Bastard wouldn't enjoy one second of their game, but then again, wasn't that why he was going to shove a needle into his arm and pump him full of drugs?

"Sir, this area is off limits." No hesitation this time in Booth's voice, only steel determination and a touch of defiance. Defiance? He snarled. Who the hell did Booth think he was? He was but a mere FBI Agent, someone who happened to have a brilliant partner. He would show him. He would put him in his rightful place, somewhere the entire world could stare at him and laugh. Nobody messed with him without paying dearly!

Locking his disgust away so it wouldn't show until he wanted it to, he conjured a smile as innocent as he could manage on his face and then turned. As he did so, he tilted his head and refrained from giving the ring on his right hand a rub with his thumb, afraid to set the mechanism in motion. Even if the Bastard noticed the elaborately ornamented gold ring, he would never suspect it was an 'Anello Della Morte' -- a rare 'Ring of Death' created and patented by the Borgia family. The tiny, but sharp needle at the back of the bezel connected to a small cavity filled with poison. It was an innocent looking object that emulated the beauty of the cobra's fangs. It was one of the most valued items of his precious private collection.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I had no idea," he smoothly said, halting and waiting for Booth to catch up. When the agent was near enough, he extended his right hand. "Please forgive me and allow me to introduce myself."

His warm and innocent smile remained plastered on his face, even when Booth warily eyed his hand. Eventually the Bastard reached out to clasp it. Immediately his smile turned poisonous. Instead of shaking Booth's hand, he smoothly slid his palm along Booth's, not letting their thumbs hook, dipped his hand under Booth's open shirt cuff, and grasped the agent's wrist. The move startled the Bastard, but by the time Booth pulled his lower arm out of his tight grip, the mechanism in the ring had been triggered beyond Booth's knowledge. Perhaps he hadn't filled the jewel with poison, but the ring did its work nonetheless and it did it flawlessly. The tiny hidden needle plunged into the veins visible beneath the skin of Booth's wrist, in the heart of Booth's Kanji tattoo, injecting an intoxicating and fast-acting soporific into Booth's bloodstream.

Satisfied he watched how Booth frowned as he rubbed his wrist smearing the tiny drop of blood that had appeared, mixing it with the black ink decorating his skin. The Bastard was still soothing the irritated skin when he focused his attention on the man who had so cleverly turned a handshake into a death grip. He clenched his fists at his side to keep from pumping them in the air in victory. It was almost a thing of beauty to see how the drugs swirling in Booth's blood stream pulled a thin veil over his eyes. His eyelids began to droop and less than half a minute later, the swaying set in. Booth's knees buckled a bit as he blinked and tried to focus on his surroundings. It was fascinating and ever so satisfying to watch the agent's usually animated face go completely expressionless. So many times he had envied the Bastard when the man had let his emotions play over his features. He had damned the frown Booth wore when he didn't understand Brennan, had cursed the playful raising of his eyebrows, had wanted to punch the quirk off Booth's lips when one of Brennan's comments amused him. Booth's ability to express his feelings with a minor adjustment of his facial expression had irritated him to no end. And now the Bastard was nothing but a blank canvas, slack and void of all emotion. Not even the horror inspired by his situation showed. How wonderful!

"What...What did you do to me?"

He ignored Booth's question, instead unbuttoned his jacket and leaned forward. He brought his face dangerously close to Booth's. A look of pure venom had overtaken his eyes, intense anger and victory had claimed possession of him. "How's the bump on your head?" he asked in a low voice. "Did that blow to the head I gave you with the trash can lid affect your memory?"

Unable to show his shock at both his confession and the fact that his legs gave up on him that very moment, Booth could do nothing but sink to his knees and stare up at him. "You," Booth whispered, eyes flicking to the thin, silver and all too familiar belt buckle that peeked out from underneath his adversary's jacket.

"Yes, me," he confirmed. Taking a step closer, he lowered his voice even more, until it was nothing but a hiss. "Remember my face, Bastard. You'll be seeing it as you stare up at me and Temperance from Hell."

"No," came Booth's weak reply. "Not...Not Bones. I won't...won't allow it."

He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, straightened and haughtily placed his right hand on Booth's shoulder to give it a good shove. The sudden move knocked the heavily sedated agent off balance and sent him onto all fours, breathing heavily.

"Yes, me and my dear Temperance. She's mine, Bastard." His face contorted in a twisted mix of anger and fierce possessiveness. "_Mine_, do you hear me? And there's _nothing_ you can do about it. Just give up and give in."

As if the words had crushed Booth's last resistance, the agent slumped down, sprawled out flat on his stomach on the chill tiled floor of the museum. But not without first feverishly breathing, "Never."

He rolled his eyes. _Whatever..._ Cautiously he nudged Booth's side with the tip of his shoe. When the agent didn't stir, he grew bolder. Humming a cheerful tune, he grabbed Booth's ankles and dragged him across the room toward the exhibit case he had been eyeing earlier. Not without some serious effort, he wrestled Booth's lifeless and limp form onto the table that was meant for an Egyptian mummy to rest upon. Now it would provide room for an FBI agent doomed to eternal sleep and slow, excruciating death by suffocation.

Without any significant care, he rolled Booth onto his back and stretched out his legs. He methodically flipped back Booth's jacket to retrieve the agent's gun from his shoulder holster. Next he reached for the smaller gun strapped to Booth's ankle. He placed both items on the catafalque beside Booth's knees; he roughly straightened the agent's clothes and took hold of his arms to fold them across his rather broad chest. One eyebrow was lifted in contempt upon noticing two droplets of blood on Booth's right shirt cuff. The Bastard couldn't even properly fall unconscious without leaving a mark. Pulling the Bastard's jacket sleeve over the soiled cuff, he smiled at the joy scrubbing Brennan clean of all Booth's marks would bring him, and how easy it would be. Unlike last time, in his cold and damp basement, he would make sure to cut Brennan loose from all chains that linked her to Booth. She would forget about the Bastard and would be filled with thoughts of him instead. She would carry his, and only his, mark, not the Bastard's.

The final stage of his plan fully formed in his head, he blinked to return to the present. Focusing back on the task at hand, he placed a gun in each of Booth's hands before stepping back to behold his work. Critically he ran his gaze over the Bastard as he lay there in a position mimicking ancient Egyptian mummies before him. He had to admit that using Booth's guns as a replacement for the pharaoh's crook and flail was brilliant. Where he had gotten the idea to give Booth a Pharonic burial, he couldn't quite recall, but he regretted not having the time to do it properly. He would have loved to pull out what little brains the Bastard possessed through his nostrils and pour them into a small canopic jar. For another silent moment, he regarded his adversary. The Bastard lying on display like that made him look almost innocent. If Booth hadn't thwarted his plans and if he hadn't stolen Brennan from him, perhaps he would have been spared. He grinned. As if that would have made him alter his plans! If he wanted full control of Brennan's psyche, Booth had to be taken out of the equation. It was as simple as that.

But still he didn't close the case. Still he didn't budge to affix the glass top over the sedated agent. Instead he stared at his victim. This was it. This was what he had been wanting for so long. This was how sweet victory tasted. He cocked his head to the right. A victory required a trophy. How else was he supposed to remember how he had defeated his sworn enemy and had restored his dignity? Pursing his lips, his gaze slid over Booth. His eyes suddenly lit up when his scrutinizing stare fell on Booth's tie. It was a beautiful black silk tie, decorated with playfully curling white lines that formed the exquisite image of a "Spirit Bear" fetish. He reached out to loosen the knot and remove the fine piece of fabric. Then he removed his own plain colored tie and slipped it around Booth neck, knotting it like a noose in a final emphasis of Booth's impending death. The "Spirit Bear" tie, a rather laughable symbol of the Bastard's attempt at standing out, he put around his own neck. Nodding proudly and gingerly smoothing it down after he had meticulously tied it, he straightened and smiled. Not even Brennan could argue that the "Spirit Bear" tie looked infinitely better on him than on Booth.

It still seemed as if something was missing. He frowned. Render the Bastard unconscious -- check. Lay him out on an exhibit table -- check. Cross his arms and use his guns as crook and flail -- check. What was missing then? His gaze swept the room and halted on an open crate to his left. Of course, that was what was missing. Pharaohs were always buried wearing a death mask! He didn't expect to find a real one inside the crate, though. Funerary masks were usually made out of pure gold; he doubted anyone would leave one out in the open like that. Instead he pulled out a fiberglass death mask, probably created to add some decorum to the exhibit room. The fiberglass was an ideal material for the Bastard. It wouldn't press down on his face and choke him, but would instead allow Booth to breathe in the inert gas he was about to be exposed to.

Almost ceremonially he covered Booth's face, slack in death, with the mask. Next he brought over four limestone canopic jars from the open crate and ran his hands over the animal head-stoppers before he placed them around the Bastard. To take Booth's burial service another step closer to the Pharaoh's, he searched the agent's pants pockets for a personal item and found a poker chip. He had seen the Bastard play with it plenty of times; it would serve perfectly as a 'personal, must have item' for the afterlife. Murmuring to himself he was giving his opponent far more respect and considerance than needed, he placed the poker chip in between the canopic jar of the Jackal-headed Duamutef who was believed to guard the stomach and upper intestines and the canopic jar of the Falcon-headed Qebehsenuef, keeper of the lower intestines.

Finally, after a moment of hesitation, he pulled the 'Anello Della Morte' off his finger. Lifting Booth's hand, he slid it over the knuckle on Booth's ring finger, making a statement of just how easy it was to trick the agent, drug him, and kill him, before curling the agent's hand around his gun again. Then he punched the button that controlled the electro-hydraulic lifters of the glass top of the exhibit case and watched the lid being lowered until it quietly clicked into place. He now only needed to activate the ventilation system and wait for the oxygen to be purged from the case and be replaced with nitrogen -- an inert gas that, unlike oxygen, didn't hurt or destroy mummies or any other kind of ancient artifact. But in the Bastard's case, as all the oxygen was being replaced with nitrogen bit by bit, the agent would excruciatingly, slowly suffocate.

He resumed his earlier humming as he leaned over and switched on the ventilation system. A glance at his Rolex told him it was 15:42. The purging phase would take about fifteen to twenty minutes, marking 16:00 as the estimated time of death. He regretted not being able to stay at the Bastard's side during the entire process, but the risk was too great. Getting caught red-handed was not an option. He could speed up the purging, but then he ran the risk of causing a too big a change in pressure. It could significantly hurt the Bastard before he died. He nearly laughed at the irony. He was killing the man, but at the same time he didn't want his enemy to die immediately. It was about the agony, after all; about inevitable death by torture. He had been tormented for months in a row because he couldn't have Brennan. He would pay the Bastard the same respect by depriving him of air and life minute after endless minute.

Feeling relaxed for the first time in a long time, he put his hands in his pockets and strolled away. He passed the red velvet rope and slipped back into the room full of South-African masks. Wearing a satisfied smile, he halted in front of a picture of the tribe gathered around a camp fire. Now that his target was safely locked into a glass case, he could at last enjoy the exhibit. He was about to wander to the next picture when he caught sight of her. Tall and beautiful as ever, but with anguish pulling her face tight, she shot through the room. He froze, his heart pounding fervently in his ears. That couldn't be her. It just couldn't. She was supposed to be at the lab, examining the useless pieces of "evidence" he had left behind. She couldn't be here. She just couldn't!

And yet she was. Mesmerized he watched Brennan tour the room, phone glued to her ear. What was she up to? Curious he kept his eyes on her riveting form. That was when he heard it -- a ring tone. Ever so soft, ever so faint, but distinct at the same time. It clearly came from the exhibit rooms around the corner. He almost growled out loud and felt like kicking himself. When he had locked the Bastard in his glass prison, he had taken his tie, had given him a burial to rival the Pharaohs, but he had totally forgotten about his cell phone. Booth still had it on him and now Brennan was using it to track him down.

Smothering a curse, he trailed after her, as inconspicuous as possible. Tension built inside of him and his muscles went taut with rage when he saw her practically fly around the corner and vault over the cord. Brennan crossed the Egyptian exhibit rooms in no time and skid to a stop in front of Booth. Immediately she tossed her phone aside, the most incomprehensible sounds falling from her lips. He strained to understand her.

"No, what have you done to him? Not Booth, not-" she dragged in a shaky breath, "Not Booth."

He went rigid, appalled to his very core. Was she whimpering? Was Dr. Temperance Brennan -- _his_Temperance -- _whimpering_ because of a stupid man who had been foolish enough to let himself be locked into a glass case? Quickly he pressed himself against the wall that separated the first from the second exhibit room and craned his head around the corner to watch her. She was still whimpering, to his astonishment, but she was also racing for a crate in the far right corner of the room. What was she going to do? Use a priceless artifact to smash the case? To his horror she pulled a crowbar from behind the crate. Surely she wouldn't...

Apparently she would. In a couple of long strides she was beside Booth's glass coffin again, lifted the crowbar high into the air, and with all her might brought it down. He grimaced when the shiver inducing sound of shattering glass rang through the room and instantly spun around. He couldn't bear being witness to this. The whimpering had been bad enough; he really didn't want to see her all over him, all concerned and -- he cringed -- loving.

Heart thumping loudly, pumping pure rage through his veins, he returned to the African exhibit and all but stomped in direction of the exit. The curious looks he received, he blatantly ignored. At the moment he couldn't care less about what people thought of him. His masterpiece -- ruined! The penultimate stage of his diabolical plan -- thwarted! He was so angry he could strangle Brennan with his bare hands! Immediately he calmed, but only for about five seconds. That was exactly what he was going to do. He was going to wrap his hands around that slender neck of hers and was going to make sure she regretted picking up that crowbar.

Anger blazed from his eyes and he snorted as he entered the underground parking lot and stomped towards his car. A crowbar, for crying out loud! She had an IQ of God-knew-how-high and yet she had picked up a common crowbar to smash the case into bits and pieces instead of turning off the ventilation system and simply lifting the lid. It showed how deluded Brennan had become. She had obviously spent too much time around that simple-minded FBI agent. Well, boo hoo. He wasn't about to cry over her lost intelligence. She had screwed up and had done so in the most revolting manner. Before, he had only wanted to take out all of her friends so she had no one to turn to but him. But now...Things had changed. _She_ had changed. Brennan was now as much of a target, if not the main target, thanks to her foolishness.

Speaking of her friends...He halted in his tracks when his gaze landed on Curly being ushered across the parking lot by the dark-haired woman he had nearly had on that public plaza. What were they doing here? Curly wasn't supposed to be sick until -- he checked his watch -- another hour or so. Frustration fought its way through him. If Brennan's friends hadn't been within hearing range, he would have howled out in pain over this latest misfortune.

Instead he crept to his car and slid behind the wheel, all the while keeping a close eye on Curly and his girlfriend. Where were they going? Curly's car was on the other side of the parking lot. That's when he saw a second woman appear -- Camille. She slammed the door of Brennan's car shut and started after Curly. He quickly scanned the parking lot. It was then that he knew where they were heading. With Brennan saving Booth and Curly sick as hell, they needed a car, one other than Brennan's, to take Curly to the hospital. A vicious smile tugged at his lips as he came up with a new plan. It was an improvised plan, a bit sloppy around the edges, and it left kind of a mess, but it was a plan with damaging consequences nonetheless.

Rage was still clawing his insides, pent-up frustration curled and nestled in the pit of his stomach, but a strange sense of calm came over him as he started his car. He'd show them he couldn't be trifled with._Nobody_ defied him. He backed out of his parking space, steered for the exit, and after a sarcastic wave to the threesome in his rearview-mirror, he grabbed the detonator and pushed the button. Mere seconds later a blast loud enough to rupture one's eardrums echoed through the underground garage sending Camille's car spinning into the air, lighting the space up with bursts of hot flames, and warming it with blazing heat.

_Perfect._

* * *

_Should I duck and run for cover?_


	14. Witnessing

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So...Is everyone set to find out what happened to Booth, Cam and the rest of the squints? - :) For those who read my one-shot 206 Facts, the set up I use in this chapter was the original scene of 206 Facts before I decided to go with the car and the skeleton.

**Faux Maven**, thank you for helping me work out this chapter until it was exactly how I saw it in my head. It's beyond fabulous that I am granted this much creativity and that you are willing to follow wherever my whims take me. I know I can be a handful...especially when there's very little time and a lot of pressure to shape a chapter just perfect for publication. It's a shame people don't get to see the amount of time we devote to every chapter. A week sometimes isn't enough, as we experienced with this baby!

**To everyone who read and reviewed chapter 13**, thank you. Honestly, I cannot thank you enough. The response to this fic has been overwhelming. I can only hope to maintain this quality and keep you all interested!

* * *

**- XIV -**

**-- WITNESSING --**

_One way__ to destroy the morale of an entire community or just one person in particular in a short time is by forcing them to watch the torture and torment of their loved ones. Witnessing how they writhe in pain, or are sometimes executed, is a deliberate and highly effective psychological torture. It terrorizes the mind of the one forced to watch, often to a point where he breaks down and goes insane._

_With basically the entire team in the hospital, severely injured (or perhaps even dying), Brennan and her companion find themselves fighting emotions that keep them in a chokehold. They are forced to witness the agony and pain their friends must endure and are tortured by the sight and feel of it all. They are the community that is nearly destroyed by being seeing and judging the consequences of Madman's actions._

_

* * *

_

_**Friday November 30 -- D.C. hospital -- 21:34**_

With each tick of the second-hand on her watch, one of Brennan's high-heeled boots rapped curt and precise on the clean hospital floor. The sharp tapping of her heels was drowned out by the hustle and bustle of the ICU. Despite the late hour, nurses brushed past Brennan, hurrying along the corridor in their continuous survey of their patients until their shift was over and they could go home. Brennan hardly paid attention to them as she walked down the hallway illuminated by harsh fluorescent light. In her right hand she carried one of her favorite extra large bags containing her usual personal items. Only now Booth's effects were mingled in with hers. His black expensive suit lay neatly folded along with his nearly impeccable white shirt under two evidence bags holding the ugliest plain grey tie Brennan had ever set eyes upon, and the deadly 'Anello Della Morte' Booth had been wearing on his finger when he arrived at the ER.

In response to the memory of an unconscious Booth, his head lolling from side to side with every jerk of the stretcher as a pair of medics ushered him through the doors of the ER, the fingers of Brennan's free hand cramped. She tried to relax, but as soon as she caught sight of the FBI Agent guarding the last door on her left at the far end of the hallway, her fingers curled into a tight ball. Her nails dug into the soft tissue of her palm marking the skin with blood-red crescents. She concentrated hard on keeping her pace steady and fast, but as soon as she got within fifteen feet of the silent agent guarding the entrance to Booth's room, her courage failed and her footsteps faltered.

As Brennan halted in front of Booth's guard, she squeezed the strap of her bag tight enough to turn her knuckles bone white. With her lips pulled to a thin line to quell any faint tremor, Brennan met the FBI Agent's stare.

"Dr. Brennan," he murmured, acknowledging her with a respectful nod.

Instead of returning the quiet greeting, Brennan switched her bag from her right to her left hand and asked, "Is Booth awake yet?"

He shook his head. "He's been quiet so far. I haven't even seen him move yet." Sliding his hands down his pants pockets, the FBI Agent leaned forward. "It's bad. He got to him good, Dr. Brennan. He got to him good."

Brennan felt the urge to gulp and back away as Booth's colleague moved away in the direction of the coffee machine a bit further along the hallway. "I know," she whispered in a voice spiked with hurt.

She threw a quick look around her, assessing the pair of nurses popping in and out of rooms in their evening rounds, before breathing in deeply and taking a few brave steps toward the threshold. But somehow she couldn't bring herself to cross it. Somehow she couldn't push herself past the doorframe. What she saw on the other side of the door seemed like another world, one as different from the busy and harsh reality of the ICU as the Jeffersonian was from the Hoover Building.

Darkness filled every corner, crawled over every surface, dominated the room with its eerie silence and oppressive weight. There was not a single light present, except for the cold glow cast by cardiac and respiratory monitors, to chase away the ink black night spilling in through the blinds obscuring the window. There was not a single fleck of brightness apart from the faint greenish glow of ICU instrumentation to alleviate the pain pressing down on Brennan's conscience. Caught in a vortex of hurt, fear and adrenaline, Brennan could do nothing but stare at the unconscious form of her partner surrounded by medical instruments meticulously recording his stats accompanied by a steady stream of beeps, sucking and ticking noises. With every ounce of her being she wanted to run to Booth's side, grab a hold of his hand, and pour all of her strength into him. But she couldn't. It was as if she was chained to the doorway and could only stare at him from a distance, forever suspended in time until she found a way to break loose and enter Booth's room.

For a long time the only thing Brennan saw was the tiny cut right above his jawbone, close to his earlobe. Made by a too sharp razor blade, about half an inch in length, the shaving cut was a nick of skin, almost invisible from Brennan's position near the door. Yet in her head it stood out on Booth's cheek as if it circled his throat from ear to ear. Brennan knew it was there because only nine hours ago she had run her fingertips over it. Her stomach involuntarily clenched at the memory. The decadently sweet yet masculine taste hidden in the depths of Booth's mouth still lingered in hers. It coated her taste buds and made the sight of him lying in a hospital bed, crisp clean sheets tucked tightly around him, all the more jarring. Which was why Brennan was filled with dread, and a reluctance to abandon her intense study of the tiny shaving cut and look at the whole of Booth.

But curiosity and an uncharted tender longing drew her gaze away from the shaving cut dotted with miniscule blood crusts. Her eyes stole over his features, drinking in the sight of his five o'clock shadow that sharply contrasted with the paleness of his skin. Anger made her ball her fists at her side, instant shock rippling through her when she sensed the depth of her raging emotions. Before she would have been mad, but she would have retained a cool sense of logic. Before she would have asked every doctor she met for information about Booth's condition; she would have demanded to be kept in the loop. Before... she would have done all those things before. Everything had been different before. How could it be possible that one impulsive, passionate kiss could change the world they knew, the reactions Brennan was familiar with?

It was as irrational as the fate Booth had fallen victim to. Impossibly still he had lain on that table, surrounded by Egyptian artifacts, not even waking when she had smashed the exhibit case with every ounce of strength she possessed. Panic had driven her from the parking lot into the museum, fear had pushed her to abandon logic and break the glass with a crowbar. It had been stark terror that had sent adrenaline spiraling through her. And now unspeakable hurt kept her from crossing the threshold.

She might be incapable of moving, but at least part of her reaction to those extreme feelings skittering across her skin was natural and familiar. Brennan was relieved to find she did what she usually did when faced with raw emotion. She distanced herself, backed away from the ravine of emotional breakdown, and snuggled into the cool coat of superficial indifference. Determination etched in the thin, pursed line of her lips, she squared her shoulders, picked up her bag that was leaning against the doorframe, and boldly stepped into the room. She might be unable to switch to full clinical mode so she could efficiently deal with her fear and desire to protect her partner, but that didn't mean she was going to surrender without a fight. Yielding to her inner turmoil and allowing it to drag her over the edge of insanity wasn't an option. Only for so long Brennan could bend without breaking, especially after having been tormented so much in the last two weeks. Her eyes locked onto Booth as if she needed him to be her anchor in preparation of the inferno that would engulf her as she wandered into the room.

Fingers twitching while holding onto the strap of her bag, Brennan's face softened as she caressed Booth's features with her eyes and slowly approached the bed. Apart from his deathly pale color and the deep shadows under his eyes, not counting the scratch on his wrist and the bruise engulfing his tattoo, Booth bore no outward marks from the attack; but the damage was there nonetheless. The killer had done more than simply drug Booth and lock him inside a glass cage filled with inert gas; he had poisoned him as well.

As if musing over Booth's poisoning took her one step closer towards disintegration, Brennan abruptly changed directions and, instead of coming to stand next to Booth, she bolted towards the window. There she set her bag at her feet and tightly wrapped her arms around herself as she stared out into the dark night.

_Hippomane mancinella_, known to the public as the Manchineel tree, was the primary cause of Booth's unresponsive state. If Booth had only been drugged and exposed to inert gas, a night at the hospital for observation would have been all he had to endure. But thanks to the intervention of a madman, Booth now had Manchineel tree venom swirling in his bloodstream. It was one of the most toxic of plant poisons, could remain active for over a hundred years, and was often associated with the 'Anello Della Morte'. This thought prompted Brennan to glance at the bag by her feet. That 'Ring of Death' was safely bagged and sat next to another evidence bag with the grey tie Booth had been wearing.

The second Brennan had noticed the ugly grey tie around Booth's neck, she had known the killer was sending her a message. Was stealing Booth's beautiful "Spirit Bear" tie his way of letting her know he thought he had succeeded in destroying Booth's spirit? Or was he telling her he had eliminated Booth so he could take his place as her partner, appropriating the right to wear Booth's tie? Brennan shook her head, dismissing all painful memories associated with Booth's vibrant ties and guided her thoughts back to the 'Anello Della Morte'. In the morning she would examine it herself for signs of Manchineel tree venom. If what the historian she once dated had told her was correct, then she would have to look for a hidden cavity in the ring and sweep it for traces of poison.

Sudden fury, a fierce reaction to the unfairness of their situation, an emotion called to life by the killer's shrewd and devious intentions, filled Brennan. It was glowing hot and liquid, like lava, and poured relentlessly into her, setting the whole of her on fire. Within seconds she was burning up, falling prey to the inferno she had foreseen, and felt like punching a wall, smashing a window, just _something_ to ease the tension wreaking havoc in her mind. But she couldn't. Such explosive display of the storm whirling inside of her wasn't normal behavior. It would shred and shatter her mask of apparent calm. She couldn't moan or cry or wail over Booth's predicament any more than she could erase the hurt tearing and scratching and biting at her like a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. Brennan was incapable of expressing the pain terrorizing her soul just as she couldn't find the courage to turn and face her partner, walk up to him and touch his clammy skin. She just couldn't and wouldn't and…

Booth mumbled something, almost too softly to register. Brennan's eyes widened and two seconds later she found herself whirling around. The sight of an immobile and ghostly white Booth leapt up and confronted her, burning into her retina an image she would never forget. Her arms fell to her sides and her breathing became shallow and faint. Instantly the furious sea of flames burning away her sanity was dimmed to the faintest flicker of anger. This was too much. This was well beyond anything she could coherently process. How was she, a woman used to distance and logic, supposed to handle her normally 'vibrant with life' partner now bound to a bed with unnatural sleep forced upon him?

Brennan quietly sighed in resignation, picked up her bag, and for the second time within ten minutes started for Booth's bed. Gingerly she sank down in the chair directly beside him and tucked her bag in between her feet, not daring to look at anything but Booth's hand. For a long time she stared at it, then moved up his arm, allowing her gaze to slide over his entire body covered with a flimsy hospital gown, taking in the absence of visible signs of battle and the death-like trance he was trapped in. Leaning forward in her chair, folding her arms on top of the starched sheets, Brennan eventually ended her intense scrutiny gazing at Booth's impassive face. What she wouldn't give to see him crack a smile at her right now. What she wouldn't do to spare both of them the agony of experiencing this exact moment. Anything to help him wake up, anything to help him fight the poison. Anything, just about anything, Brennan realized. She wanted to connect to him, wanted him to know that what he had said right before he had kissed her senseless was mutual; Brennan needed to have her say in the chain reaction that had been set in motion the split second after Booth had planted his lips on hers.

Shaking slightly, Brennan curled her hand around Booth's hand and laced her fingers with his. Hesitantly, as softly as Booth's earlier sleepy mumble had been, her thumb stroked the back of his hand. With every caress the chaos clamoring in her mind receded. For the first time in hours a comforting calm settled over her and Brennan pushed out a breath in relief. This was where she was meant to be. This was what she was supposed to do. Standing back, avoiding her partner, waiting for insanity and hurt and grief to overtake her had only wound her up until she was nothing more but a simpering mass of nerves wishing for a spine.

"You have to wake up, Booth," Brennan whispered. " You have to come back to me. I... I need you. I..." Uncertain she kept her eyes trained on his face as she tightened her grip on his hand. It felt as if the missing piece of the puzzle fell into place, as if a tiny morsel of her soul was mended as she repeated Booth's earlier words. "I care about you. A lot. More than I should, but I do."

"That's quite a confession, Dr. Brennan."

Quick as lightning Brennan dropped Booth's hand and jumped to her feet. Her heart beat wildly in her throat as she pinned the woman standing in the doorway with an ice cold glare. The dim light dominating the room made it almost impossible to see who was staring back her. Relaxing when recognition eventually dawned, Brennan resumed breathing. Cam lifted an eyebrow in question and nodded at Booth. "I'm sure he'd love to hear it when he's awake."

Brennan drew her arms around her and tried to paste a smile on her face, the result a watery quiver of her lips quickly transforming into a grimace. "And encourage his male ego to develop some more? I don't think so."

"You consider this a case of 'ego boosting'? Your choice, I guess..." Cam strolled over as casually as she could, wincing in pain whenever she shifted weight onto her right foot. Restrained groans of hurt were locked behind grimly set lips. A bandage covered the right side of her forehead and Cam's favoring of her right arm didn't go unnoticed by Brennan. Releasing a silent but tortured breath, Cam lowered herself onto the side of the bed, at Booth's feet. In response to Brennan's furrowed eyebrows and calculating stare, she straightened, trying to ignore the stabs of pain flashing through her body. "I'm fine, just peachy, have never been better. Thank you for asking. It's the others you should worry about."

"How are they doing?" Brennan asked, turning away so she could look at Booth again.

"They're in pretty much the same shape you left them in an hour ago. Zach's wounds are healing nicely, Hodgins is receiving the antidote, and Angela is doing great apart from having her left arm in a sling."

Brennan shook her head. "I can't believe she jumped in front of Hodgins when your car exploded."

"She loves him. That's a good enough reason I should think," Cam murmured. "Nothing shows your feelings more than protecting the one you love by covering them with your own body."

"She shouldn't have been forced to do so in the first place. That explosion should have never happened," Brennan quietly said. Anger clearly rang in her words. Cam couldn't blame her; at the moment she herself had to battle back her intense desire to strangle whoever had destroyed her car and had threatened to murder her in the process.

"But it did. We're just lucky we weren't too close to the blast." Cam cringed upon recalling how the explosion had hurled her against a parked car. Angela and Hodgins had been closer to the blast, but had the common sense to fall to the ground and stay down until the worst had passed. "What we've got to do now is nail the bastard who's after us." Brennan nodded in agreement. "All we need is a place to start. Wasn't Booth on his way to check out a drop off point or something?"

"He was." And Brennan left it at that.

Cam felt her colleague's reluctance to continue, her hesitation to acknowledge that there was something they could do. It was strangely unlike Brennan to be so passive if a solution presented itself. But in a way Cam understood Brennan's reluctance. If she had been in Brennan's shoes, she wouldn't have been eager to leave Booth's side either. The strange connection the two partners shared didn't allow Brennan to leave before she had received a sign that everything was going to be alright with her other half. Shock registered and realization slammed home, forcing Cam's eyes to widen and her breath to catch in her throat. Two halves of a whole; it was obvious and plain to see, now more than ever. The killer was trying to separate them by taking out everyone Brennan knew, one by one, but all he succeeded in doing was to drive the whole team – and two members in particular -- closer together.

Cam cleared her throat, pretending to pluck a non-existent bit of dirt off her jeans. "Did something...Did Booth..."

Brennan's reaction cut her off before she could form a proper sentence. As soon as Cam mentioned Booth's name, Brennan tensed, her shoulders rounded, and anxiety flashed over her features. Apparently the shock of finding Booth entombed in an exhibition case was still present. Cam didn't hesitate to abandon her line of questioning for the time being. Perhaps she was Brennan's superior, and perhaps she had the right to ask questions and receive answers, but those rules didn't apply to personal matters. She would try again later. For now she settled back against the foot board of Booth's bed and closed her eyes.

Brennan remained upright. For some odd reason she couldn't bring herself to sit down again. Every muscle in her body screamed with strain and hurt and fatigue, but they wouldn't allow her to drop down onto the chair she had been sitting in earlier. So she stood at Booth's side, arms locked tightly around herself, eyes trained on Booth's face, ready to catch even the slightest glimpse of his awakening.

Neither had a clue of how much time passed before Booth began to mutter again. Incoherent, slurred and far from understandable, his mutterings were balm to the shreds of Brennan's soul. The killer had pierced the 'Soul' tattoo on Booth's wrist, injecting his own concoction of venom and sleeping drugs right into Booth's body and soul. It was unmistakable evidence of his hatred toward Brennan's partner, of how much he wanted to tear Booth's soul apart...and destroy Brennan's while he was at it. Their killer obviously didn't appreciate just how connected they were. When Booth hurt, Brennan hurt too. When Booth awakened, she would too. Now Booth's soul was in danger and hers was at risk as well. But every innocent syllable that fell from Booth's lips surprisingly knitted pieces of her back together, bit by bit until her clenched muscles loosened and Brennan found the strength to sink down onto the uncomfortable chair next to the bed. Cam's eyes were still closed but a faint smile danced around her lips while she listened to Booth's sleepy murmurs.

"Booth kissed me."

Brennan's blunt statement reverberated through the heavy silence that smothered the room and bounced off the walls. Brennan expected Cam, Booth's former lover, to jump up in surprise or at least open her eyes, but to Brennan's astonishment Cam didn't even _sound_ the least bit surprised or horrified when she replied, "He did?"

Brennan nodded, even though Cam still had her eyes closed and couldn't possibly see her. "Yes, he did. At the Hoover building. In front of everyone."

One eyelid was raised and a dry retort followed. "Nice going." As she felt Brennan tense up again, Cam sighed and opened both of her eyes. "I can't say I didn't expect something like this to happen. It was inevitable considering the way you've been dancing around each other." Brennan frowned in response. Cam shifted around as she carefully weighed her next words. "Look, Dr. Brennan, don't give me any 'We're just partner' speeches. Just listen to me. Booth kissed you and I'm pretty sure you kissed him back. That's fine, perfectly acceptable, perfectly natural. It fits right in with your 'biological urges' scheme. Just don't dismiss it too easily. Booth has had his eye on you for quite some time now. We've all noticed, well, except for you, and it doesn't work to your advantage, at all."

"It doesn't?"

Cam shook her head. "You're not used to his kind of caring. It's unconditional, intense. When Seeley loves someone, it's with his whole being." Cam sat back, crossing her arms. "I want you to consider, before you decide anything. You need to be sure you know what you're getting into. Because once you accept his affection, there is no turning back."

"You sound as if you speak from experience." Brennan tilted her head. "Did he love you unconditionally then?"

Cam smiled weakly. "He came close once...the first time we were together." Her gaze dropped to her lap where her fingers were fiddling with the hem of her sweater. "He believed he loved me for all he was worth, but he was fooling himself...both of us, actually. He loved me for all _I_ was worth. That's why I let him go. I couldn't handle not having all of his heart." Releasing her sweater, Cam lifted her eyes to gauge the effect of her words on Brennan. "He didn't make the same mistake again. When we decided to give it another try last year, Booth knew exactly what I was worth...and it wasn't much, I'm afraid." She tilted her head as she subjected Brennan to an assessing stare, murmuring, "It's different with you. He considers you worthy of much more, maybe even more than he's capable of giving." Shaking her head and straightening, without breaking her eye lock with Brennan, Cam tried to soothe the panic that was edging its way into Brennan's gaze. "It's why he's never allowed himself to cross that line with you. He knows the second he does, he would be lost. It's hard to love someone unconditionally when you're Seeley Booth."

"I..." Brennan swallowed. "I don't understand. What does all of this mean?"

Shaking her head, Cam got to her feet and briefly touched Brennan's shoulders. "It's not up to me to make you understand. Ask Booth...when he's awake and with you again. He'll do a far better job than me."

Brennan slowly nodded as she considered Cam's speech. Eventually her nodding turned decisive. "I will," she promised. "But for now we have a murderer to catch."

"Yes, _we_ have," Cam agreed, smiling.

Silence returned to the room as they both sat back to watch over Booth. With every other member of their team in the hospital, there was little they could do now except to rest and heal. But tomorrow...Tomorrow Brennan and Cam would go hunting.


	15. The Man Catcher

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Haven't got anything interesting to report except that I really enjoyed the Monday I took off this week, he he. As for thank you's:

**Faux Maven**, you know how much your help is appreciated. You make wanting to improve myself very appealing and enjoyable. I'll be sad once this ride is over and there's nothing left to work on...But then again, that's what new story ideas are for, isn't it? (imagine one heck of a broad grin)

To those that reviewed the last chapter, put me or my story on alert or to those who stop by to read but don't leave a review, thanks for reading (and reviewing)!

_And before I forget -- there's a link to Booth's "Spirit Bear" tie on my profile!_

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**- XV -**

**-- ****THE MAN CATCHER --**

_When picturing the Man Catcher, imagine a long pole with a two-pronged head. __An opening between the two semi-circular shaped prongs allows the prongs to slide around the victim's neck and then snaps shut immediately, effectively trapping the victim in the process._

_Although seemingly closely related, the Man Catcher and the Thief Catcher served somewhat different purposes__. Whereas the Thief Catcher was used to control a criminal's movements, the Man Catcher was designed to drag a person from horseback and pin him to the ground so he couldn't move. In medieval times it played a significant part in abducting noblemen for ransom. Because they wore armor, their necks were protected from the strong hold of the Man Catcher's metal prongs. Trapping and containing violent prisoners (whose necks weren't protected by armor) was another purpose of the Man Catcher._

_In Papua New Guinea a weapon similar to the Man Catcher was once used by some primitive tribes. It consisted of a spike and a loop mounted on a pole. The loop was thrown over the victim's head and then the pole was violently jerked backwards, impaling the victim at the base of the skull._

_In the previous chapter I mentioned Brennan and Cam would go hunting. What better way to capture a Madman than by using a Man Catcher? Unexpectedly, Brennan and Cam come across some very interesting evidence. Evidence that might just lead to Madman's downfall..._

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_**December 1 -- Washington D.C. -- 11:47**_

"Are you sure this is it?"

Without bothering to turn and look at Cam, Brennan narrowed her eyes as she squinted at the store across the street. A veil of mist drifting along the sidewalk obscured the building from view. Despite being close to noon, the sun -- watery and cold in a first day of December kind of way -- hadn't yet succeeded in burning off the thin but persistent vapors. Through this mist, Brennan stared at the vague impression of burgundy velvet curtains framing a display window that had the words 'The Old Antique Shop' engraved on it in medieval style calligraphy. The store was wedged in between dilapidated buildings ready to be torn down by bulldozers if they didn't collapse of their own accord in the near future. The clammy December weather, combined with the poor state of the neighborhood, explained perfectly why they couldn't spot a living soul walking down the street.

Both Brennan and Cam believed it strange that someone could have gotten the idea, or could have found an investor crazy enough to lend them the money, to open an antique store in an obviously condemned area. Neither of them would be surprised if the whole neighborhood was slated for demolition. And yet Brennan was staring with narrowed eyes at a perfectly intact store...Though its merchandise was far from being unremarkable. It could have been your average antique store had it not been for toe and thumbscrews, a Skull Splitter, the Chain Whip and an Iron Gag put on display in the window on rich embroidered cushions in the same style as the curtains.

"I'm as sure as Booth was," Brennan replied. "Miller gave him this address."

"Who's Miller?"

Brennan leaned back, but didn't make eye-contact with Cam just yet. She kept her eyes trained on the display window as if she expected to find a clue by gazing at the torture devices. There was something disturbing about those things, and it wasn't just because they were implements designed to cause pain and agony. They emanated an aura of pure, unadulterated evil, horrible and ugly in its most basic form. Brennan blinked several times to chase away all fatigue, ignoring the urge to rub her eyes, as she cocked her head to the side. Her logical side tried to study these objects of torture from a safe distance while judging their anthropological value, but it was hard to create distance between the chaos in her mind and the silent cries of misery and pleas for mercy radiating from them.

It wasn't just the torture devices that piqued her interest while at the same time causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. Something didn't quite fit; something felt 'off' about the store. Darkness loomed behind the display window, cupping its gigantic hands around the objects put on display. A malignant menace enveloped the building, causing Brennan to shift restlessly in her seat. Something about that store across the street, an invisible message broadcast by 'The Old Antique Shop', raised a red flag of alarm in Brennan's head.

Refusing to give in to a so called 'gut feeling', Brennan kept her tumultuous emotions firmly in check. The day before she had nearly broken down; she couldn't afford such an obvious loss of control now, not when they were tracking down their prey, not when they were busy closing in on the man who had turned their lives into a living hell. Now definitely wasn't the time to investigate the damage caused by the tidal wave of emotion that had so recently washed over Brennan. There would be plenty of time later for an in-depth radioscopy of her psyche. Later, but not now. Or perhaps never if Brennan had any say in it.

Shaking her head to clear away these unwanted thoughts, Brennan answered Cam's question. "Miller was a suspect Booth brought in for questioning. The creep spent his time videotaping me."

Cam turned slightly so that her shoulder was resting against the car seat, crossing her arms and mockingly lifting her eyebrows. "I don't know what's more shocking -- the fact that Booth broke the rules by allowing you to be present during the interrogation, or the fact that you consider it normal to follow Booth wherever he goes."

Scowling openly at her boss' remark, Brennan turned and gave Cam a pointed look. Cam shrugged. "Just trying to make conversation."

Brennan raised her eyebrows, but refrained from any comment. Instead she drew in a strengthening breath before unclipping her seatbelt and moving to open the car door. "Let's go."

Both women got out of the car, quickly wrapping their thick winter coats around them to keep the warmth from inside the car from escaping their skin and clothes. Brennan buttoned up her coat, wrapped her scarf around her throat, and bravely tilted her chin upwards. Her eyes locked onto the antique store again as she pushed away all feelings of foreboding. Just because Booth had been hurt on his way to the drop off point Miller had mentioned during his interrogation, that didn't mean that the same thing would happen to them. What had happened to Booth proved that there was something worth finding at 'The Old Antique Shop'. Muscles bunching with tension, Brennan clenched her fists as she strode across the street. She nodded decisively. Her partner and friends were in the hospital. They deserved and needed any clues she could find that would unmask whoever was behind the great scheme of turning their lives into pure hell, even if that meant risking herself.

Cam walked right beside Brennan, hiding her slight limp as best as possible. The wound near her temple aching terribly, and her hands were loosely tucked in the pockets of her winter coat. Hot breath billowed like smoke around her as she exhaled slowly, emptying her body of all breath as well as nervousness and blind anger. She could feel tension crackling along her skin. It clouded her good judgment; it hazed her thirst for justice. Every cell in Cam's body screamed for vengeance, for retaliation for the fact that a psycho had been allowed to touch and hurt her team. Cam fiercely wished they'd stumble across a clue in the store they were approaching. They needed something concrete, however little and seemingly insignificant it was, to nail the extraordinary monster who was after them.

Goosebumps of excitement spread across Brennan skin as she pushed the door open and a cheerful jingle resounded through 'The Old Antique Shop'. The sparkling tinkle of the brass bell hanging above the door rudely broke the eerie quiet present in the shop. The lack of customers and the dim lighting created a scene vaguely reminiscent of the typical abandoned mansion scenes so often seen in B-rated horror movies. The store's interior did nothing to help Brennan and Cam shed that impression. Wherever they looked, they saw hell. Table after table, exhibit case after exhibit case, was stacked with torture devices, some known and others unfamiliar. Some were flecked with droplets of dried blood, attesting to their authenticity and age. It was an unsettling and slightly frightening picture to behold.

The silence that fell after the doorbell stopped ringing was even more oppressive than the one they had disturbed upon entering the store. It pounded in their ears in rhythm with their heartbeats as a feeling of the utmost discomfort crept upon them. Tentatively Brennan and Cam took a step forward, but grew immediately bolder when they heard mumbling and a faint tapping sound. The tapping persisted as Brennan and Cam moved towards it as quietly as possible. They wove through the narrow pathways in between vast numbers of tables and book cases, each neatly stacked and its contents meticulously dusted. Brennan maintained a firm grip on her bag and Cam straightened her spine in preparation.

As they passed an Iron Maiden next to what seemed to be a prototype of an electric chair, a high wooden counter came into view. Behind it stood a man as peculiar as the tapping sounds they still heard. With a hunch-backed, meager frame and sickeningly pale skin, the man looked as if even the slightest puff of wind could blow him away. The wild disarray of grey and white-streaked hair and a pair of black-framed tortoiseshell glasses sliding down his long, sharp nose were visible signs of his profession. The black cane with a silver miniature globe on top, however, didn't quite fit the profile of the average antique dealer. The man restlessly tapped the tip of his cane against the counter as he mumbled incoherently and leafed through the pages of an ancient looking manuscript.

Brennan and Cam shared a look before Brennan cleared her throat and approached the counter. "Excuse me, Sir." The man ceased his rapid flipping of yellowed pages, but didn't stop striking the counter's side in an unnerving staccato rhythm. He slowly lifted his head and looked at Brennan over the rim of his glasses. "I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan and this is Dr. Camille Saroyan. We're from the Jeffersonian. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Ask away, Lucas Strom is at your service," the antique dealer replied in a nasal tone.

Unperturbed by Strom's annoying voice, but forced to suppress a shiver when she laid eyes on his bony, twitching hands, Brennan crossed her arms and said, "What can you tell us about Albert Miller?"

"He's a very pleasant man," Strom immediately answered, moving to tap his cane against the wooden floor boards instead of against the counter. Brennan quirked an eyebrow. Somehow she couldn't picture the hunk of toned muscle Booth had intimidated exchanging pleasantries with dull, grey Lucas Strom. He continued, completely oblivious to Brennan's silent and mental, but sharp-edged mockery. "Always courteous, always up for a chat. Yes, yes, I certainly like Albert," Strom nodded. "He drops by about twice a month, whenever he's got a delivery."

"What kind of delivery?"

The antique dealer's reply was vague and was punctuated by a short series of curt and rapid cane taps. "The devil may get me if I know. He just leaves a box containing God knows what with me and that's all I know."

Glancing at Cam, Brennan felt her lips thin into a grim set and her arm muscles tightened in reflex to the news. The dreaded tapes she had mentioned to Cam earlier had most likely been hidden in those boxes. "What happens after Miller's gone? Do the boxes stay with you?"

"Yes, but not for long. They are picked up the next day by one of my clients."

Brennan swayed and she had to keep herself from gripping the counter for balance. Could it be that this peculiar little man knew the man who had purchased the tapes of her, who had illegally obtained a Jeffersonian security badge, and who was quite possibly the mastermind behind all the attacks directed at them?

"Could you give us his name?" The slight crack in her voice as she spoke was the only indicator of the jarring emotions surging through her. Close, they were so close. Was this feeling in her bones the 'gut feeling' Booth often so eagerly welcomed?

"Of course, of course. I'll get my book." Strom's cane accompanied the squeaky noise of his shoes as the scrawny man hurried away.

Trying to control her rapid, shallow breathing, Brennan turned as Cam came up beside her. Surprisingly, Cam had kept to the background while Brennan questioned Strom. Now the pathologist materialized next to her and casually leaned against the counter. "So have you figured out yet what you're going to tell Booth when we're at the hospital tonight?" When Brennan shot her an incredulous look, Cam's mouth curved into a smile. In a conspiratorial voice she leaned slightly forward as she said, "You can't pretend that kiss didn't happen, Dr. Brennan. You can't forget it, no matter how hard you try."

Brennan remained silent, staring at Cam, until Strom returned carrying a heavy book. He placed it on the counter and opened it to reveal a long list of what appeared to be names and addresses. Cam and Brennan couldn't help but marvel at the precise, alphabetically ordered record of the people who had crossed the threshold of his store. The number of customers was larger than either of them could have expected. Strom began to flip through the book when he stopped to watch Brennan who set her bag on top of the counter, unzipped it, and slipped her hand inside to retrieve a small plastic bag. His mouth fell open when Brennan held up the evidence bag containing the '_Anello Della Morte_'.

Breathlessly he asked, "Is that...?" Brennan nodded. "Could I...?" Brennan hesitated, but nodded and handed over the bag nonetheless. "This is extraordinary," Strom murmured. "What a coincidence. Yes, what a coincidence this is."

"What is?"

"The client's name I was about to look up for you...He's the owner of this fabulous 'Ring of Death'."

All color drained from Brennan's face as she stared at Strom and stammered, "Are you certain?"

"Dr. Brennan, in my profession you don't easily forget someone with such a vast and exotic collection of tease and torture implements. Especially not when he's one of your most loyal clients. In fact, I've got several pieces of his right here with me." Strom absent-mindedly gestured at a table on their right where some of the most vicious-looking devices were displayed.

Sensing Brennan's distress, Cam placed a possessive hand on the book that held Strom's client records and asked, "May we?"

"Sure, sure. Look under M. His name is Tatum Malloy. Keep the book as long as you want, but only if I may..." he replied, holding up the bag with the '_Anello Della Morte_'. Cam nodded in agreement, picked up the book, and leaned against the counter as she flipped it open while glancing every few seconds at Strom from the corner of her eye. Brennan headed for the previously indicated table, somewhat lost but somehow managing to keep panic from overwhelming her.

Silently Brennan stared at the torture implements before she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began the task of sorting through Malloy's donated collection. They worked quietly for a few minutes, Cam methodically inspecting every name and address recorded under M and Brennan holding up torture devices for examination as she tried to remain calm.

"You didn't answer my question," Cam casually remarked as she located Malloy's entry and took out pen and paper to copy it.

"I don't see the point of discussing what happened with Booth," Brennan said.

Cam frowned. "You might not, but Booth won't drop the issue. You know how he is."

"But nothing significant happened. We just kissed," Brennan absent-mindedly replied, putting down a Breast Ripper and reaching for a Spanish Tickler. "We kissed. That's it. It's not like we had elevator sex."

"Oh, so he kissed you in the elevator?" Cam asked, her voice as well as her eyebrows rising. "What happened when you got to your floor?" Her question was met with silence. Finishing her precise copying of Malloy's home address and phone number, Cam looked up as she prompted, "Brennan?" Astonished she watched Brennan go rigid and lose even more color. As white as a ghost, Brennan stared at a pair of rusty medieval chains and handcuffs that lay before her.

"It can't be," she whispered, shaking hands hovering above the metal shackles. "It just can't be."

---&---

_**December 1 -- At the Jeffersonian -- **__**14:14**_

Wave after sickening wave of horror and fear spilled through Brennan's veins. Small eruptions of shock pricked her skin from the inside out and her mind was racing. The second Brennan laid eyes on those rusty chains, every piece of the puzzle had begun falling into place. She hadn't thought it possible, but the past had come back to haunt her in every possible way.

It was _him_. There was no escaping it or denying it. The methodically executed plans, the hatred broadcast by his every attack, the ease with which he had infiltrated the Jeffersonian museum the other day, the medieval chains...They all pointed to one culprit, one man Brennan wished she had never met. His face she had never seen, except for his cold and murderous eyes, because he had been smart enough to wear a hood, but his voice she remembered with awful precision. Until the day she died, Brennan would hear the cutting edge of his raspy voice as he whispered obscenities in ear.

'Pretty' he had called her before nearly snapping her neck by delivering a stinging slap across her face. 'Bitch' he had hissed at her whenever she dared to mention Booth's name. He had hated Booth with a fervor and a fury unlike any she had come across before. Shivering from the chilling memories, Brennan closed her eyes and squeezed the evidence bag with the grey tie and the tape she was holding. In a minute she would hit 'PLAY' and would have to witness Booth's staged burial. Every rational fiber of her being was battling down the mind-numbing cocktail of memories from her kidnapping nearly a year ago, the reluctance and pain of watching her torturer get the upper hand on Booth, of instinctively knowing the significance behind the tie she was clutching.

Drawing a deep breath, Brennan slid the tape in and pressed 'PLAY'. Immediately security camera footage from the museum came on screen. Brennan watched a handful of people mill about the African exhibit before the camera switched to the ones in the dimly lit Egyptian exhibit rooms. She froze. It took her perhaps half a minute to assess the man moving before her eyes. She saw him drag Booth over to the empty exhibit case, saw him lifting Booth's still body onto the table. Mesmerized, Brennan couldn't look away, couldn't stop studying Booth's captor's movements, as he enacted his personal version of the Egyptian burial ritual.

When the video showed Booth's tie being switched for the ugly scrap of fabric Brennan was clutching in her hand, she turned away, unable to endure the liberty and cruelty their tormenter allowed himself. There was no mistaking his identity. In about ninety minutes, when Cam got back from comparing the DNA samples they had scraped from under Angela's nails with the hairs Brennan had ripped out during her capture the year before, Cam would only confirm a fact Brennan was already certain of. She knew his fluid gait, knew every tilt of his head by heart. The entire week she had spent in his company, Brennan had memorized every peculiarity of his body language. She knew it as sure as she needed the next breath to live. She recognized him one hundred percent and therefore knew that the name and address they found at 'The Old Antique Shop' was fake.

This wasn't Tatum Malloy. It was _him_.

Brennan's mind was still reeling from the realization when her cell phone chirped. She stopped the video and put the evidence bag with the tie away before answering the call. The message was short, but relieved some of the shock and irrational fear tormenting Brennan. She thanked the caller, hung up, and got to her feet. In no time she was standing in the doorway of Cam's regular examination room where she watched Cam move around for a minute or two. When Cam caught sight of her and looked at her in question, Brennan weakly smiled.

"The hospital called. Booth awoke about fifteen minutes ago. He...He asked for me."

* * *

_Next stop: the hospital!  
_


	16. The Guillotine

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** A fun fact to share about this chapter is that the first half of it reminded Faux Maven of the song Masochism Tango by Tom Lehrer while the entire chapter made me think of Won't Back Down by Fuel. Goes to show what different impressions people can get from the same piece of writing...

That being said, let's move on to the usual rounds of thank you's. Muchos gracias to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I'm thrilled you all seemed to like the Brennan/Cam combo.

As for **Faux Maven**...I know I wasn't in the best of moods on Tuesday, but you didn't seem to mind much. Thank you for staying calm and keeping me grounded. Every youngster needs a rock. lol

* * *

**- XVI -**

**-- ****THE GUILLOTINE --**

_The Guillotine is not so much a torture device as it is a device used for __execution by decapitation. With its tall, upright frame (the _bascule_ to which the victim is tied), the _lunette_ (a plank that holds the victim's head in place) and its razor-sharp blade, the Guillotine was the main method of execution in France during both the French Revolution and the Middle Ages._

_Dr. Joseph - Ignace Guillotin, a professor of anatomy on the faculty of medicine in Paris, was the man who thought of a way to turn guillotine-like devices such as the Scottish Maiden and the Halifax Gibbet into a swifter and more accurate instrument for dispensing death. Because the Guillotine was considered a precise instrument that delivered immediate death with no chance for failure, on March 20, 1792, the Guillotine was declared the official method of execution in France. Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Guillotin didn't die by means of his own invention, but rather of pneumonia._

_Once the head was separated from the body, it fell into a basket at the other side of the _lunette_, was picked up by the executioner and then presented to the crowd. There is an ongoing debate about whether or not the executed person remained aware once head and body were separated. Scientists have reported opening and closing of the eyes in response to the executed person's name being called out, and speech and movement of the mouth, but this could well be random muscle activation._

_The Guillotine is __one method of capital punishment. The term "capital punishment" refers to the Latin word _capitalis_ meaning 'regarding the head'. Capital crimes used to be punished by the taking of the head. Madman's well-planned schemes, each single one hatched in his brilliant, psychopathic mind, can be, without a doubt, catalogued as crimes worthy of capital punishment. In this chapter he receives just that, punishment for his crimes. Another reason I have chosen an execution device rather than a torture device for chapter title is because in this chapter Madman finally meets his end. It will be swift, precise and there will be no escape._

* * *

_**December 1 -- Washington D.C. Hospital**__** -- 16:23**_

He was seething with anger -- absolutely boiling, close to the point of exploding and attracting unwanted attention. But except for jaw muscles sore from grinding his teeth and shaking hands, nothing of his inner rage showed as he slipped out of his car holding a freshly starched, spotless lab coat and an opaque plastic bag containing a stethoscope and two other objects that would remain hidden from sight until he was alone again. Those items neatly folded and tucked under his arm, he walked through the hospital entrance doors and moved toward the elevator intending on riding it to the fifth floor. It was one hundred percent pure luck that he had eavesdropped on the idle chatter between two nurses in the ICU and had learned both Booth's room number and his condition.

It was just the luck he needed for the final stage in his carefully constructed plan. He didn't like it one bit that he was forced to adapt the last act of his mission -- his quest -- of reclaiming Brennan, but he had no choice. In his original plan Booth would be dead by now, but thanks to Brennan's intervention the Bastard had survived, requiring him to revise a master plan that could no longer be executed. But it had to be completed if he was ever going to own Brennan. He just needed to separate her from her friends and eliminate the man who had so boldly laid claim to her. The Bastard would go down; he would burn and from his ashes Brennan's rightful owner would arise.

It didn't occur to him how violently Brennan might protest. The notion was, in his opinion, simply too ridiculous to waste thought upon. She was his, period. Soon she would realize just how well they fit together. Soon, very soon -- right after he had rewired Booth's heart monitor. The Bastard wouldn't know what was happening to him until he was beyond saving and had only one option: death by electrocution as his heart beat wildly…and then finally stilled.

He came to a stop in front of the elevator and hit the CALL button. A slow smile spread across his face as he watched the numbers above the elevator doors count down. If everything went according to plan, Booth's time was also counting down. Soon he would be as dead as that pathetic excuse for a boyfriend he had consigned to hell a bit more than two weeks ago. He snorted. No matter how hard he tried to understand the attraction Brennan had felt for that John-guy, the only thing he could come up with was that she was deliberately taunting him. Why else would she have been interested in such a wimp?

He got in when the elevator arrived, nodding vigorously. Yes, there was absolutely no other reason why Brennan had dated John. It was precisely why he had pulled that trigger and had taken his rival out of the equation. The same went for the Bastard: he stood in between him and delectable, blood-stirring Dr. Brennan whom he would ravish as soon as he had vanquished his rival.

By the time he arrived at the fifth floor, exhilaration flowed through his veins and a satisfied smile curled around his lips. But he didn't let his guard down. His entire scheme could collapse if he was discovered. Cautiously he moved down the hallway, his eyes roaming over every object, stealing glances of other patients as he walked past their open doors. Some were sleeping, others had visitors, but they were all waiting for dinner to be served. If he had done his homework properly a pair of nurses would, in about half an hour, come down the hallway with a large cart holding a meal for each patient. All he had to do was find the Bastard's room without anyone noticing him.

But first he had to change into more suitable attire. The black sweater and dark jeans he wore were perfect for surveillance, but in a hospital, surrounded by bleak white, it was the equivalent of a neon sign. He would never get close enough to the Bastard if he didn't shed his current skin. The guard posted at Booth's door, now but a vague figure at the end of the hallway, would never let in an unauthorized person wearing such stark and somber clothing.

Quietly he disappeared into an empty room and closed the door. As he pulled his sweater over his head he checked the black dress shirt he wore underneath for undue creasing. He had chosen the shirt deliberately, not wishing to make a bad second impression on Brennan just when he had killed her partner. Brennan had to see she was in safe hands -- safe and fashion-conscious hands. He would keep her locked away from the world so she would never know harm again. He would be the world she needed; he was bent on becoming the center of her universe. She would never accept him if he looked like anything but the powerful, sophisticated former-Jeffersonian donor with money to burn.

As he focused on the image of a submissive Brennan he ignored the unwelcome clenching of his hands. They twitched unpleasantly as his mind jumped from Brennan serving him to Brennan smashing the exhibit case he had locked the Bastard into. How baffled and angry he had been when he had discovered that he had injected both _Hippomane mancinella_ and his self-invented sleeping drug into Booth's system. How annoying it was to have his plans thwarted, if only in part? But how could he blame himself? It wasn't his fault that the last user of the '_Anello Della Morte_' hadn't cleaned the ring properly. He had been furious at first when finding out what a crucial mistake he had made -- overkill just wasn't his thing -- but now he could only be grateful. Thanks to the murderous intent of the last owner of the Ring, he could now end the Bastard's life in style, a bit more violently than he originally intended, but in style nonetheless. Hell, Booth should feel honored to be murdered by him. He'd exit stage right in high dudgeon – if only he knew what was happening to him!

Lost in thought he folded his sweater and put on the lab coat. He briefly felt the right pocket of the lab coat, reassured when he felt the contour of a modified power cord beneath his fingertips. The stethoscope he draped around his neck, below the lab coat's collar, as any regular doctor would do. As a final touch he retrieved the Bastard's "Spirit Bear" tie and slipped it over his head and around his neck. A hint of a smile touched his mouth as he ran his fingers down the smooth, cool silk, intensely enjoying the feel of it. How satisfying it was to wear Booth's badge of masculinity. To him, taking the tie was the equivalent of stripping the Bastard of all that made him virile and a temptation to Brennan. By snatching away that precise piece of fabric, he intended to show Brennan just how easily her beloved partner could be defeated. Wearing the tie now, at that crucial moment when he would tip the scales in his favor forever, was more than just a caprice. The moment Brennan saw the tie, she would know who was the strongest, who had the right to call himself Alpha, and who exactly was Brennan's rightful owner.

Satisfied with his appearance, he quickly hid the bag underneath the bed. Loosening his neck muscles by rolling his head and breathing in deeply, he strode out into the hallway. The guard barely looked up as he approached. Frowning, he slowed down. If he had known Booth's FBI colleague was so unworthy, he would have just opted to knock him senseless so he could gain access to Booth's room instead of playing out this masquerade.

Clearing his throat as he came to a stop at Booth's door, he looked up and met the guard's eye. "I need to examine Agent Booth."

"Didn't you guys do that just about an hour ago?" the guard asked wearily.

He blinked, but smoothly offered an immediate explanation. "There is something wrong with his stats. We believe the heart monitor is malfunctioning." He wasn't lying. It would be malfunctioning soon enough.

"Oh," the FBI Agent said. "Sure."

Giving Booth's guard a curt nod, he shoved his hands down into the pockets of his lab coat and strolled across the threshold. Dusk had just begun to settle in, shrouding the room in a dim light that seemed to blur all edges. It felt like a dream. He and the Bastard hung suspended in time, cut off from the world, waiting for life to begin again. In semidarkness Booth rested; in twilight he waited for his strength to return. But what the Bastard didn't know was that the darkness would never end. There would be no more waking up for him, no more sunrises to behold. It would end today, within the next half hour. He just needed to make a few adjustments and then...

He startled when Booth mumbled incoherently. Upon entering the room, he had thought Booth was asleep. Was his rival awakening from what appeared to be a drug-induced slumber laid upon him by doctors so they could, as his guard was down, examine him thoroughly? Was he exhausted because of all the tests he had undergone, or was the Manchineel venom still polluting his blood? It was of no importance. As long as the Bastard kept quiet and remained groggy, he could do as he pleased and could end his mad chase of Brennan tonight.

As quietly as possible he moved forward, planning on circling the bed and locating the heart monitor cables. He briefly halted at Booth's side. Dismayed, he noted how there was no apparent bruising. That would be the only thing he would regret when it was all over. In his original plan, he had given the Bastard a respectful burial. As much as he loathed Booth because he had dared to lay a filthy hand on Brennan, he had admired him. He had to, since he would be taking his place. But now that things were different, now that he had changed plans, he felt his hands itching to grab a hold of Booth's throat and squeeze the life out of him. Envy, a profound jealousy unlike any he had ever experienced, pushed him into moving again. He had barely taken a single step when Booth began to mumble again, only this time it was completely comprehensible.

"What are you doing here, Doc? More tests?"

He quickly glanced at the FBI Agent. The man looked pale and sleepy, his eyelids at half-mast and his head lolling slightly to the left. Booth tried to focus on him, even tried to push himself up against his pillow, but his muscles didn't seem to respond. He cocked his head. Either the poison or some other drug was effectively keeping the Bastard sleepy and incapable of recognizing the man who had knocked him out cold only a few days ago. _Perfect._

What to do now? Not answering was not an option. Clearing his throat, he decided to call on his chameleon-like abilities. If he could duck in and out of the Jeffersonian unnoticed, he could easily mislead this pathetic excuse of an FBI Agent. He pasted on a fake smile and deliberately adopted a bit of a lilting voice as he replied, "No, just checking on your heart monitor. The plots seem a bit off."

Booth rubbed his eyes before nodding. "Right. I'd better take these off then." Booth was about to reach up and tug the electrodes off his bare chest, but was stopped by a shake of the head.

"No, you must keep those on. I shouldn't be a minute."

Less than a minute if he had any say in it. Plugging the heart monitor cables into a modified power cord leading to the wall outlet instead of to the monitor was a piece of cake. All he needed to do was find the right leads.

After a final glance at Booth's peaceful features, he crouched down and began sorting through all the wires and cords on the floor. He quietly snorted in disbelief upon seeing the number of machines the Bastard was hooked up to. Had his ordeal at the Jeffersonian taken such a toll on him? Had he hurt the Bastard more than he thought he had? Apparently so, judging by the crescendo of bleeps, sucking and ticking noises filling the room. No wonder health insurance was so expensive. He smiled in satisfaction. He liked how the Bastard was suffering. It was a foreshadowing of the utter torment he was about to experience. Now if he could just find the right cable and...

"Hey, Bones," the Bastard suddenly mumbled. "Looks like you got my message. Thanks for leaving a pair of PJ's last night."

He froze. Brennan? Here? It couldn't be! His every muscle went taut as he listened in horror to the ticking of high heels and the sound of a door being closed. The tapping of stilettos continued until Brennan came to a halt at Booth's bed. He remained utterly silent and completely motionless. If he was lucky she would stay at Booth's left side and wouldn't notice him crouching on the other side. He ducked even lower as he reached out to quietly tug at the power cord he had been looking for, but his hand paused in midair when Brennan began to speak.

"You're welcome. Anything is better than those hospital gowns." She paused long enough to draw in a deep breath. "Cam and I went to 'The Old Antique Shop'."

"Great," Booth replied, shifting around so he could, presumably, see his partner. "And?"

"Miller was right. He used the store as a drop-off point for the tapes."

Brennan's clothes rustled when she sat down. She placed her bag between her feet. He could see it all happen in his head as he listened to her making those noises no more than five feet away. He shivered in delight. Very soon he would no longer have to survive on his memories or the crumbs he had gleaned from tapes and surveillance. Very soon she would make those noises and do a hell of a lot more just for him. His fingers curled around the power cord while Brennan continued her report in a clipped voice.

"We talked to Lucas Strom, the store owner. He recognized the 'Ring of Death'."

It took all of the control he possessed to bite back a chuckle. Brennan was certainly right. Strom had nearly been drooling the second Brennan had showed him the most valuable piece of his collection. He had seen the entire interrogation, or what had to pass for one, from his hide-out in the back of the store. Poor old Strom never knew that he had made a copy of his keys.

Another suppressed chuckle shook him as the last time he had seen Strom flashed through his head. The man had loved the '_Anello Della Morte_' to bits. Strom had promised to do anything if he could have the small piece of decadent jewelry. So that's exactly what he had demanded as a payment. He had ordered Strom to burn his client ledger before he had given him the ring he so desired...and then forced him to swallow it. It had taken a few well-placed blows and kicks, but eventually Strom had eaten the ring, albeit it with tears and blood streaming down his face. That had been right before he had strapped the antique dealer to the prototype of the electric chair that stood beside the Iron Maiden, plugged it in and flipped the switch. He bet Strom had wished, right before he had been fried to a crisp, that he had never restored the chair and had never plugged it in to see if it would work. It had certainly done a proper job for such an old piece of equipment.

"He gave us a name," Brennan said, still oblivious to the audience at the other side of the bed. "A fake name."

_Duh_, he wanted to say, however dumb the expression was in his opinion. Of course Strom had provided them with a false name. Smart people who handled illegal affairs never offered their real names.

"Doesn't matter," Booth replied. "I know what make of car he drives. I know his voice. I've seen his face. We have enough to recognize him if he makes another appearance."

He nearly snorted as he pulled the monitor cables from the cord leading to the monitor. _Right, that's why I'm half a yard away rewiring your heart monitor..._

The Bastard winced as he sat up straight. "Hell, if we were Zach and Hodgins, I'd shout "King of the Lab!" Well, "King of the Investigation", really."

"It's Jackson Dolan."

The entire room froze in shock. Booth barely had time to suck in a sharp breath when a roar of outrage broke the spell cast by those three words, pronounced in a tight voice by Brennan. Footsteps pounded the clean hospital floor, a growl erupted from his throat, and then he was on top of her. In a matter of seconds he leapt over the bed and jumped on Brennan, taking the both of them down and knocking the air from her lungs. He growled again and wrapped his hands around her throat, tight as a vice.

"So you finally remembered me, bitch," he hissed. "Took you long enough."

And remember him she did. Dolan felt her eyes roving over his face, felt her penetrating stare burning his skin. It was a magnificent thing to behold how she catalogued his appearance. Refined cheekbones, nose crooked from a well-placed elbow about a year ago, pointed chin and skin the color of cream just like hers. But it was his eyes she lingered over, those blue-grey eyes that had coldly stared at her, had openly stripped her naked, just like they were doing that very instant; watching her as she had been chained to a wall covered in dirt, mold and coppery water. His eyes were the only part of his face she had ever really seen; and would without a doubt remember forever. He smiled at her, suppressing the urge to tell her it was rude to stare, and how she didn't need to memorize his every feature since she had a lifetime left to study him. Smiling wickedly at Brennan, he rested his entire weight on his hands as he tightly curled them around her neck.

He could see a miniature reflection of himself in her eyes. Since Brennan barely blinked, she provided him an unusual mirror to check his appearance with. As he smiled, two rows of yellowed teeth -- one front tooth strangely twisted and a missing incisor that formed quite a gaping hole -- appeared. His ears stood a bit apart from his head and were of a moderate size...or so he thought. It was his hair he was proud of. Razed ultra short, only a few millimeters long, his ash blonde hair -- more ash than blonde, closer to grey than he wanted to admit -- crowned what he believed was a well-shaped head containing a much larger than average brain. Dolan had always thought of himself as handsome, as a more than fair catch. Brennan didn't know just how lucky she was for having caught his attention.

As his fingertips, long and bony and ending in thick, hornlike fingernails, dug into the soft skin of her throat he could feel her fear emanate from every pore. He could smell the heady mix, felt himself become aroused by the sharp tang of it. How he loved to make her squirm. Her panicked clawing at his hands only served to make him rock hard. He leaned down until their faces were only an inch apart. Brennan's struggle for air, her gasping breaths punctuated by the pounding of her knees against his back, made him smile sweetly. For a minute he basked in the rush of adrenaline that her fight for life sent surging through his veins. Their breaths mingled and a sensual sound escaped him. Dolan shuddered with desire. It had been such a long time since he had felt her wriggling beneath him, since he had felt her bending to his strength.

"So pretty," he murmured. "So very pretty. I've always thought of you as beautiful." He held her down with one hand as he ran the fingers of his other hand over her face. Continuing in a voice so low and growling that only Brennan could hear him, he lowered his face some more and brushed his lips over hers. "You smell of him, do you know that? Even through your fear, I can detect his stink. I'll have to work to make you mine again."

Rage blazed from Brennan's eyes. She tried to scream, roar, rage, but could only utter a weak squeak. Dolan grinned. "There's no escaping, my dear. I won't let you go so easily this time. We'll be the perfect couple."

She released her hold on his choking hand and lashed out. He groaned in pain when Brennan dragged her nails down his face, quickly followed by a right hook as he leaned back to get out of reach of her clawing hands. Dolan slid his fingers through Brennan's hair and wound it around his hand, yanking her head back. Quite possibly he would drag her out of the hospital by her hair if she continued to resist him. But before he could do just that, a hand clamped down on his shoulder and he was jerked around. A fist crashed into the right side of his face and he moaned and fell to the floor.

Blood spurting from his nose and his jaw aching from the impact of the punch, he stared up at Booth who was wobbly on his legs, but wide awake nonetheless. Dolan could see the muscles at the base of the Bastard's neck bulging and tightening, and the blood running down the back of his hand where he had torn out his IV. His eyes were narrowed to slits and he was clenching his fists in anticipation. Wordlessly Dolan got to his feet, wiping away the blood before shrugging out of the lab coat and pushing up his sleeves.

"I should have killed you first," Dolan muttered as he eyed his opponent. Booth stood about three inches taller and outweighed him easily because of his muscled physique, but Dolan was swifter and leaner...or so he liked to believe. He almost felt ashamed for challenging the Bastard into such and unjust and unfair fight. He spat on the ground. "I should have put that bullet through your brain and saved a lot of time."

Without any warning he lunged forward, aiming for Booth's waist so he could take him down, but Booth grabbed him by the collar and all air was pushed from his lungs when Booth folded him over the metal side rail on the bed.

"Over my dead body," the FBI Agent said through clenched teeth before punching him again.

Dolan fell to the ground once more. From the corner of his eye he saw Brennan scrambling to her feet, probably intending on sprinting to the door and notifying the guard outside. "No, you don't," he muttered as he took hold of her ankle and yanked her back. Brennan fell down with a yelp and kicked back in response. Her stiletto heel dug into his shoulder, making him wince in pain as he wondered what it was with women and high heels. Didn't they know they could mortally wound a man with those killer shoes?

He was about to pounce on Brennan again when Booth grabbed him by the shirt collar and growled for him to let go of his partner. Dolan ignored the Bastard, instead swinging out his leg and sweeping Booth's legs out from underneath him.

"Over your dead body, you said?" Dolan asked as he caught sight of his discarded stethoscope. "That can be arranged."

He grabbed his stethoscope, winding his hands around the ends of it as he straddled Booth, and quickly wrapped the tubing around Booth's throat. The agent wheezed and groaned as Dolan tightened his strangle hold. A smile spread over Dolan' face. "Feels good, doesn't it?" he whispered as he choked the life out of his opponent. "In a minute you'll be dead and then nothing will stand between me and Brennan. She'll be mine, all mine."

"Like hell I will."

Dolan had just enough time to look up, eyes wide with surprise, when a steel urinal hit him full-force in the side of his head. He tumbled to the side, dazed for a few seconds. Then he jumped to his feet, wiped off his face, and lunged for Brennan. They fell onto the bed, Brennan landing wild yet precise kicks and blows, Dolan doing his best to avoid her every attack while pinning her down. Behind him he heard Booth come towards them. He was pulled off Brennan and was tossed to the side. Brennan fell off the bed, on the side where he had quietly been fiddling with cables and cords just a few moments ago.

Booth grabbed him and held him still, sweating with the exertion. Pain was etched in every line in his face, but he didn't seem to feel it. Dolan kneed him in the side and tried to push him away, but Booth worked harder to pin him firmly to the mattress. But the struggle was getting to the FBI Agent. Dolan could clearly see the exhaustion etched in his face. Growling loudly, he swung his fist and hit Booth on the side of the head. With Booth momentarily stunned, Dolan wormed himself free of his death grip, turned around, and prepared to make another lunge for Brennan. But he froze before he could push himself forward.

On the ground, right before him, Brennan sat -- and she had that look on her face. His heart stopped upon seeing her eyes flick back and forth over the task he had abandoned when he heard his name fall from her lips. She saw the heart monitor cables unplugged; she touched the modified power cord lying next to them. And there it was. Bingo. The 'Fork in the Toaster' look. She knew exactly what he had been up to.

_Shit_.

He roared and leapt for her, but was held back by Booth who twisted his arms behind his back. He kicked and spat and squirmed, his emotions overtaking him, pouring through him like an unstoppable avalanche until rage consumed the whole of him. He was no longer a man, no longer an evil genius with a perverse desire for Dr. Brennan. He became a beast, a prisoner of his own feelings of possessiveness and anger. Through a blood-red veil of madness he watched the Bastard's face contort in pain. He felt himself kicking and punching, like an animal driven into a corner. He heard Brennan's cry of outrage, heard her yell but couldn't quite make out the words.

Dolan didn't need to hear because seconds later Booth rolled off him, panting heavily, and a new pair of hands grabbed him by the collar. He was pulled to his feet and immediately pushed against a nearby wall, arms twisted up behind his back and a pair of cold handcuffs mercilessly snapped over his wrists. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the grim-faced guard staring back at him. Behind him, Dolan heard the Bastard sit down on the edge of the bed, pushing out a deep and exhausted breath.

"What took you so long?" Booth groaned.

"I was getting coffee," the guard apologized. "I figured you would be safe with Dr. Brennan around. You know, with her martial arts and stuff..." He trailed off, clearing his throat as he threw an embarrassed look at Booth and Brennan.

"Just get him out of here," Booth ordered, waving them away.

The guard turned, dragging Dolan with him as he recited his Miranda rights. He hardly paid attention to the guard's words. As they led him away, he could see it all in his mind, all the horror he had caused, all the torture he had committed. Brennan, secured to his basement wall with medieval rusty chains, bruised and bleeding. He had beaten her, had nearly raped her. John Percy, her dead boyfriend, whom he had mercilessly shot through the head. Angela, the tall, dark-haired beauty, whom he had chased in Rockville, who had given him a run for his money when she had fought him like a wild cat. Zach Addy, the skinny kid, who he had beaten and tied to a tree and had left for dead. Jack Hodgins, 'Curly', who he had poisoned in such a devious way. Camille Saroyan, the beautiful scientist who he had tried to blow to pieces. And finally Booth, the Bastard, the thorn in his eye, the nail on his coffin, the one he had respected enough to give a proper burial.

They had all survived; they had all escaped the gruesome fates he had chosen for them. In his final moments he saw them all laugh at him. It wasn't supposed to end this way. He, Jackson Dolan, was meant to be the survivor. He was destined to be Brennan's owner. He, and only he, could live.

But as he looked back, right before he and the guard exited Booth's room, he was granted a glimpse of how life would continue on without him. Brennan stood beside Booth, her hand on his shoulder, Booth's hand that still bled at the wrist covering hers. They were together, hurt and bruised and bleeding, but together nonetheless. His whole scheme had failed. He hadn't even rubbed off on them. They were together; they were a whole.

They were -- he snorted with disgust -- just _perfect._

* * *

_Let's get cheering. The next chapter will be the last!_


	17. Drops of Water

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well guys, this is it -- the final chapter. In total this story took nearly 6 months to be completed, but it was well worth the time...in my opinion anyway. I just want to thank you all for reading. It means a lot to me! Special thanks go to all those readers who decided to show how much they enjoyed their read with a review or by adding me or my story to their Author and/or Story Alert list.

But the biggest thanks of all has to go to **Faux Maven**. She offered her help in a time when I was desperate for a kick-ass beta. Thank you for taking me on and being patient whenever needed. I know there were a few times when you were compelled to wring my neck, but somehow you managed to refrain from doing just that. lol (My neck is grateful, ha.) I honestly don't know how Strappado would have turned out without you. So thank you, thank you, thank you!

* * *

**- XVII -**

**-- DROPS OF WATER --**

_Drops of Water' or 'Chinese Water Torture' is a torture method in which the victim is strapped down to endure drops of water dripping onto his forehead in an irregular rhythm. The key elements of this method of water torture are (a) the fact that the victim is immobilized, always able to see and anticipate the next drop, and (b) the irregularity of the water drops. The inability to escape the inevitable drops leads to a constant state of anxiety culminating in hallucination or even dementia._

_Drops of Water' was first described under a different name by Hippolytus de Marsiliis in Italy during the 16th century. He took the principle of dripping water hollowing a stone and applied it to the human body. The term 'Chinese Water Torture' has nothing to do with the actual Chinese people. It is believed the term might have arisen from Houdini's 'Chinese Water Torture Cell' (referring to the escape trick Houdini performed when hanging upside down, bound and restrained, in a glass and steel cabinet filled with water) and also the Fu Manchu stories of Sax Rhomer (where Fu Manchu's victims had to endure various torture methods cooked up by Fu Manchu). Or perhaps the term was derived from other terms such as 'Chinese fire drill' and 'Chinese whispers' in which the word 'Chinese' refers to Victorian slang for 'confusing' or 'containing erratic qualities'._

_The final chapter of Strappado is named for__ a torture method that consumes both mind and body. Now that Dolan has been caught, everyone can relax and can recover physically as well as mentally. They were each subjected to physical torture that threatened their sanity. Another reason why I picked this method is because of the irregularity of Dolan's attacks. No one could foresee when he would strike next and there was no pattern to discover in his actions, much like drops of water._

* * *

_**December 1 -- Washington D.C. hospital -- 22:37**_

It was a dark and dreary night. One that usually formed the ominous décor of mysterious tales of horror, but now faded into the background of a tumultuous night. Booth sat on his bed with his back against the headboard, a pillow tucked behind him and three squints surrounding him. Hodgins lounged in an easy chair he had dug up God-knows-where and had Angela right beside him perched on the arm rest. Angela's arm was draped protectively over the back of the chair, the fingers of her left hand caressing Hodgins' shoulder. Dolan's marks on Angela's neck and chest had almost completely disappeared, while Hodgins' skin color had returned to normal thanks to the antidote he had received. They sat on the left side of Booth's bed with their backs to the door. 

Zach was across from them. Not being one who cared much for comfort, Zach hadn't complained when they left him the least comfortable chair in the room. With his back impossibly straight and his arms crossed, he leaned against the hard plastic back of the rickety chair. The only indicator of the torturous hours Zach had endured while being strapped to a tree was a distance in his eyes and a pallor to his skin that didn't seem to improve despite all the rest he had gotten since being rescued. He stared at Booth as the FBI Agent filled them in on what had taken place a few hours ago. 

"I can't believe the Bureau appointed one of the stupidest men alive to guard me. He was out for coffee..." Booth trailed off and tiredly ran a hand over his face as he finished telling the teammates what had happened.

Hodgins mockingly lifted the cup of coffee he held in his right hand. "Hey man, don't you dare dis coffee. It's a life saver."

"Not in my case, it wasn't," Booth muttered.

Angela shook her head as she sat up and leaned forward. For a few silent moments her eyes wandered over Booth's features. She glided over the deep lines that worry and pain had drawn; she lowered her gaze to note the tired slump of Booth's shoulders and the restless tapping of his fingers on the bed sheets. She could easily see how Booth's arm muscles twitched with tension underneath the fabric of the pajamas he wore -- pajamas which Angela knew had been dropped off by Brennan. The steady clenching of Booth's jaw muscles was a dead give away too. Angela understood perfectly how agitation and fear were plaguing the agent's mind. It was now several hours since Dolan's arrest and Brennan still hadn't returned from accompanying Dolan and the guard who had handcuffed him. The only reason Angela could come up with for Brennan's delay was that she had gone to Cullen or whoever was the guard's superior to inform them on their agent's intolerable behavior.

"He got to you good," Angela quietly noted.

Booth turned to meet her eyes and, after a moment or two, slowly nodded. "He did, but not as much as he got to Bones." His gaze flicked down to his hands as he fiddled with the sheets. "I don't think she'll easily get over this."

"Dr. Brennan is doing just fine," a voice said from the doorway. Their heads whipped around to find Cam looking at them. A small smile played around her lips as she pushed away from the jamb, crossed the room, and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed near Booth's feet and on Zach's side. "I saw her when she passed by the lab to pick up the DNA test results. She told me she wanted to make sure Dolan would be kept under constant surveillance."

"Did she say anything else?" Booth asked.

Cam shrugged. "Not really, but she had that glint in her eyes. You know, the one that reminds you of a pit-bull unwilling to let go of his bone."

"She saw all of us end up in the hospital without getting hurt herself. How would you feel?" Booth replied as he sent Cam a sharp look.

She unblinkingly stared back. "Murderous without a doubt." Cam sighed, shaking her head, and briefly touched the sheet covering Booth's legs. "Look, I'm not judging her. I saw her come this close to losing it when we were questioning Strom. I'm just...I think she's just really annoyed."

Booth tried to relax a little, leaning back against his pillow and consciously slowing his rapid tapping of the bed sheets. "I doubt anyone knows how Bones feels at this point. Dolan nearly broke her. He treated her worse than Kenton and the Gravedigger combined."

As if he had just let a secret slip, Booth's face hardened and he tightly gripped the sheets. He remembered Brennan's kidnapping as vividly as if it had happened the day before. He remembered the paralyzing fear that had twisted his gut, how disbelieving he had been at first when Brennan didn't answer her phone and then didn't show up for work. He recalled his frantic search for clues, his fervent prayers for her safety, and eventually the cold anger that almost smothered him as he had raided Dolan's hide-out.

"What happened last year, Booth? She never told any of us."

Shaken out of his memories, Booth looked up from his fist strangling the sheets to find Angela intensely staring at him. "I don't think she even told me," he slowly said. "Not every single detail, I mean." He paused as he breathed in deeply and hesitated about whether or not it was up to him to recount how he had rescued Brennan since she had obviously chosen to keep the details to herself. But as he looked around, and remembered the pain they had been put through by Dolan, Booth saw no other option than to confide in them.

"She didn't have to tell me what went down while Dolan had her," he began. "It was written all over her. The bruises, the cuts, the blood..." He briefly squeezed his eyes shut. "The pain in her eyes was overwhelming and terrifying. I was the first one who saw her. It was me who found her chained to some gritty wall." Booth's voice grew slightly distant as he saw the entire rescue scene enfold in his mind. After he had kicked down the basement door, and as soon as he had checked the room for Dolan, he had rushed over to Brennan to free her from the pair of medieval rusty chains cutting into her skin, and shield her from the prying eyes of the men who accompanied him on the raid.

"Once I got those chains off her, she...she collapsed. I tried to keep her upright; I tried to shield her and keep her from view." He gave Angela an almost pleading look. "You know Bones. She can't stand it when people see her at her weakest. So I tried to cover her...protect her." He shook his head and directed his gaze at the wall opposite the bed. "I tried and for a day or two she let me. But then she got out of the hospital and she started distancing herself. She withdrew from me while at the same time she opened up to complete strangers. The guy that got shot on her patio was one of her latest catches." He snorted disbelievingly, still staring off into the distance, as he mumbled, "Damn frustrating..."

"And that's where Samantha came in," Angela whispered, referring to the woman Booth had spent a turbulent month with. The feisty redhead had popped up out of nowhere and had disappeared just as quickly and as mysteriously. Everyone on their team but Brennan had known the precise nature of the relationship Booth maintained with Samantha. They had all been aware, but had wisely kept their observations to themselves. It startled them to hear Booth confess openly what had driven him to pursue Samantha and her whimsical desires.

Booth smiled weakly as he raked his fingers through his already ruffled hair. "I can't believe I told all of you."

"Neither can I."

Zach was the first one to react. He jumped to his feet and greeted the lissome figure standing in the doorway in a strained voice. "Dr. Brennan."

Brennan hesitated for the briefest of moments before crossing the threshold. She took two steps into the room before halting. As if on cue, Angela and the others quickly glanced at each other and simultaneously got to their feet. Angela smiled encouragingly at Booth, as did Cam to the agent's surprise, while Hodgins clapped him on the shoulder and Zach simply stared before rounding the bed and heading for the door. They all filed out of the room, leaving Booth and Brennan alone.

Booth averted his eyes to study his hands, but his head shot up again when he heard a rustle of clothes indicating Brennan was on the move. Even in the dim light cast by the single bedside table lamp, he could clearly trace the erect posture of his partner. He allowed himself to stare at her, memorizing every square inch of Brennan's well-cut pants and shirt, the bare skin of her neck and hands, the dancing and curling locks of hair that swept over her back and shoulders, and the shadows playing over her face as she approached the bed. As she came to a stop beside him, Booth slowly let go of a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

"I believe this is yours," Brennan said as she dangled an all too familiar tie in front of him.

Booth smiled and took the piece of silk from her. He regarded it in silence for a few moments before he looked up. "Thanks, Bones. I didn't think I'd ever see it again."

Brennan impassively stared at him. "I confiscated it from Dolan. It didn't become him."

"The colors didn't work for him, huh?"

Brennan refrained from replying. Instead she shrugged one shoulder and wandered over to the window. She could feel Booth's eyes following her, but was unwilling to turn and look at him. The whole situation had a strange sense of déjà-vu since only yesterday she had been standing before a window as well and had been just as reluctant to meet Booth's gaze. 

"I talked to Cullen about the guard's error. He should have asked for identification before he let Dolan in."

"He shouldn't have gone for coffee either," Booth added.

"He did it before," Brennan quietly returned from her position by the window, but still without sparing him as much as a glance. "When I stopped by last night, he went for coffee as well. And I didn't say anything then."

Booth remained quiet for a few moments as he absorbed what Brennan had just told him. He cleared his throat, his fingers absent-mindedly tracing the patterns imprinted on his tie. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't revealed Dolan's name. I was too groggy and tired to really concentrate."

Booth could feel his own muscles constricting as he almost saw his partner tense from head to toe. For a moment, he didn't think she would reply, but then her answer came softly with a crack of disbelief and hurt in it. 

"He tried to electrocute you. All he had to do was rewire your heart monitor. If he had succeeded, then you would have...you would have..." She exhaled shakily and it reminded Booth of when Brennan had tried to convince herself who she was and what her job was. It seemed like a lifetime ago they had stood in that barn and Brennan had so desperately held on to him as he had assured her he knew exactly who she was. And now they were in a similar situation. Only this time Brennan needed confirmation that he justified her actions.

"But he didn't succeed," he countered just as softly. "You stopped him."

Abruptly she turned around. "I wanted to kill him, did you know that? When I was on the floor and saw what he planned to do, I wanted nothing more than to hook him up to the heart monitor and shove those cables into a power cord." She stared at him, wide-eyed, breathing shallowly. "I wanted to kill him, but I couldn't."

His tone was still soft when he replied, only now a hint of warmth and gentleness was added. "You're not like him, Bones. You're not as cold and calculating as Dolan. You will never be. That's why you couldn't do it." Booth moved aside and patted the vacant spot beside him. "Come and sit with me, Bones."

For a moment Booth believed she would refuse his offer. She stood there, staring at him as night poured through the blinds behind her. Her fists were clenched at her side and her chest heaved in an unsteady rhythm. He didn't need to check her pulse to confirm his suspicions. Dr. Temperance Brennan, the woman he proudly called his partner, a scientist who believed in empirical evidence and logic, was out of control. She was so different from the woman he had met at the beginning of their partnership that he could hardly believe she was still Brennan. Booth's shoulders slumped and he looked down at his hands, at the "Spirit Bear" tie he was still holding. He trained his gaze on his fingers as he fiddled with the scrap of fabric. Just a few moments ago he had wanted her to open up. Now the thought that she might scared him.

He jumped a little when he felt the mattress dip under her weight as she sat down next to him. "He got to you good," he said, unconsciously repeating Angela's earlier statement.

Brennan inhaled sharply and on the breath she released, she admitted, "Yes, he did."

Booth nodded, surprised at her admission, silent because he was unsure of how to respond. In all the time he had worked with Brennan, he had rarely seen her so vulnerable. He shifted uncomfortably, nerves whirling in his stomach as he restlessly played with his tie. Brennan sat beside him, staring off into the distance with her arms crossed and an inscrutable look on her face. 

"You never told me how you found me at the Jeffersonian," Booth suddenly asked.

Brennan didn't turn; she didn't even stir, as she replied, "I called you. Dolan forgot to take your phone."

He frowned. "What made you so sure I was still in the building? I know my car was there, but still...How did you know Dolan hadn't taken me away from the lab?"

"I didn't know. I had a...feeling," she glanced down and up again, pausing as she tasted the word, "you were still around." Her lips curled into what Booth mentally described as a teasing half smile. "The parking lot security guards were helpful too. They saw you get into the elevator."

"So much for a gut feeling," Booth mocked her, but quickly shut up when he saw Brennan's face fall.

"I never want to go through that again, Booth," she told him. "I was...I was out of control -- frantic. When you didn't pick up your phone, I..." Brennan shook her head. "I needed you to be there and you weren't."

As he lay down his tie, resisting the urge to grab Brennan's hand, Booth lifted his head and quietly asked, "Why didn't you call me, Bones? The night John was killed; why didn't you give me a call? You know that all you have to do is pick up the phone and I'll be there."

Slowly Brennan turned her head. For a silent moment she stared at him before she said, "Maybe I figured you would drop by because you had one of our case files with you. You usually come over to discuss my reports before signing them. Or maybe I didn't want you to know that another one of my attempts at a relationship failed." 

"The guy got his brains blown all over your patio. I'd hardly say _you_ failed, Bones," Booth muttered.

She turned away, but continued her explanation. "Or maybe I wasn't reasoning logically and expected you to instinctively know that I needed you."

He narrowed his eyes and leaned a bit back as he gauged Brennan's reaction, or rather the lack thereof. "Come on, Bones," he gently said as he reached for her hand, giving in to the need of skin-on-skin contact. "I know we're great together, but if you expect me to _know_ when you need me then I'd say we need to work on the mind reading thing."

"Would you really be there if I called? Always?"

With a small crooked smile, he squeezed her hand and with his other hand reached up to brush aside a stray strand of hair. "For you I would, Bones."

Brennan frowned slightly as she met Booth's tender gaze before looking down on their linked hands. Absent-mindedly she noted how she was stroking the back of his hand with her thumb and how the feel of his skin sent tingles up her arm in spite of the chaos currently swirling in her mind. There was just something about the way Booth's fingers protectively curled around hers, how their palms pressed closely together. Before she was even aware of what she was saying, Brennan heard herself ask a question she didn't think was appropriate after having faced the possibility of Booth's death only hours ago, but she asked it anyway.

"Do you honestly believe we're great together?"

Lifting an eyebrow in challenge as he tightened his hold on her hand, Booth replied, "God, Bones, were you even there when we kissed? Another minute with you in that elevator and I don't think I would have let you go." He blinked, stunned, and then quickly moved to cover up his slip. "I mean...You know...I know this probably isn't the right time to say this, but..."

"Was it like that with Samantha?" Brennan interrupted him.

"No, it was nothing like that. What she and I had was...different. It was nowhere what you and I shared...share, I mean. I know it happened kind of unexpectedly -- believe me, I had no intention of kissing you -- but..." He winced. "That came out wrong, didn't it?" Brennan nodded, one eyebrow raised in what Booth could only identify as mild amusement. "What I meant to say is that you were mad at me and I was frustrated with you, and then there's that hug we had at the hotel, and..." Booth fell silent when Brennan pulled her hand out of his grasp and slowly ran her fingertips over the sheets covering his thighs. "What are you doing?"

"This one is on my list," Brennan announced, her eyes fixed on the back and forth motion of her fingers. She glanced up at him. "The 'How to Silence Booth Effectively' list."

Booth couldn't help but let out a bark of laughter. Despite all the drama they had gone through, despite being unsure how to move on now that Dolan was caught, Brennan hadn't lost the ability to remember his words and use them against him. He nudged her with his shoulder, still smiling, as he murmured, "It better not be at the top of the list."

"Who said it was?"

His smile broadened into a grin as he took hold of her hand again and threaded his fingers through hers. Neither of them said another word as Brennan relaxed against Booth's side and he gently caressed the back of her hand. Dolan was in custody. Their nightmare was finally over. They both knew they had to talk -- about Dolan, about their kiss, about where to take their partnership -- but for now all they truly wanted was silence, each other and a touch to connect them.

* * *

_I am sure some of you are curious to what my next project will be like. I will be honest with you. I have a few ideas, but since I am in desperate need of some time off to recharge my batteries I don't know when I will be able to sit down and work out a new story line. But I am planning on doing a one-shot or two so if you are interested in more of my work, keep an eye out for those. Who knows, I might reveal the first posting date of my new story..._


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